^,-0 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
UBRABT    SOCIETIES 
SCHOOL 


JH 
Edgeworth 


a  00001  69769  4 


DATE  DUE 

GAYLORD 

POINTED  IN  U.S.A. 

Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/parentsassistantedge 


THE 


ub\  5d 


PARENT'S  ASSISTANT; 


... 


OR, 


STORIES  FOR  CHILDREN.      L^ 

MARIA  EBGEWORTH. 


COMPLETE    WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
J.  B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO 

1880. 


CONTENTS. 


Pag* 

LAZY   LAWRENCE 11 

TAKLTON , 40 

THE   FALSE   KEY 60 

THE    BIRTHDAY    PRESENT 86 

simple  srrsAN 103 

THE    BRACELETS 174 

THE    LITTLE    MERCHANTS 204 

OLD    POZ 264 

THE    MIMIC 27^ 

MADEMOISELLE    PANACHE 314 

THE    BASKET    WOMAN 3^2 

THE    WHITB   PIGEON 358 

THE    ORPHANS 369 

WASTE   NOT,    WANT   NOT 394 

FORGIVE   AND   FORGET 425 

THE   BARRING   OUT,    OR   PARTY   SPIRIT 442 

ETON   MONTEM 482 


m 


PREFACE. 

ADDRESSED  TO  PARENTS. 


All  who  have  meditated  on  the  art  of  governing  mankind  have  been  con- 
vinced that  the  fate  of  empires  depends  on  the  education  of  youth. — 
Aristotle. 


A  motto  from  Aristotle  may  appear  pedantic,  but  it  was 
chosen  merely  to  oppose  such  high  authority  to  the  follow- 
ing assertions  of  Dr.  Johnson :  — 

"  Education,"  says  he,  "  is  as  well  known,  and  has  long 
been  as  well  known,  as  ever  it  can  be.  Endeavouring  to 
make  children  prematurely  wise  is  useless  labour.  Suppose 
they  have  more  knowledge  at  five  or  six  years  old  than 
other  children,  what  use  can  be  made  of  it  ?  It  will  be  lost 
before  it  is  wanted,  and  the  waste  of  so  much  time  and 
labour  of  the  teacher  is  never  to  be  repaid."*  The  re- 
mainder of  this  passage  contains  such  an  illiberal  attack 
upon  a  celebrated  female  writer,  as  ought  surely  to  have 
been  suppressed  by  Dr.  Johnson's  biographer.  When  the 
doctor  attempted  to  ridicule  this  lady  for  keeping  an  infant 
boarding-school,  and  for  condescending  to  write  elementary 
books  for  children,  he  forgot  his  own  eulogium  upon  Dr. 
Watts,  of  whom  he  speaks  thus :  — 

"  For  children  he  condescended  to  lay  aside  the  philoso- 
pher, the  scholar,  and  the  wit,  to  write  little  poems  of  devo- 
tion, and  systems  of  instruction  adapted  to  their  wants  and 
capacities,  from  the  dawn  of  reason  to  its  gradation  of  ad- 
vance in  the  morning  of  life.     Every  man,  acquainted  with 

*  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson. 

(v) 


VI  PREFACE. 

the  comnon  principles  of  human  action,  will  look  with 
veneration  on  the  writer  who  is  at  one  time  combating 
Locke,  and  at  another  time  making  a  catechism  for  children 
in  their  fourth  year.  A  voluntary  descent  from  the  dignity 
of  science  is  perhaps  the  hardest  lesson  which  humility  can 
teach." 

It  seems,  however,  a  very  easy  task  to  write  for  children. 
Those  only  who  have  been  interested  in  the  education  of  a 
family,  who  have  patiently  followed  children  through  the 
first  processes  of  reasoning,  who  have  daily  watched  over 
their  thoughts  and  feelings,  —  those  only,  who  know  with 
what  ease  and  rapidity  the  early  associations  of  ideas  are 
formed  on  which  the  future  taste,  character,  and  happiness 
depend,  can  feel  the  dangers  and  difficulties  of  such  an 
undertaking. 

For  a  length  of  time  education  was  classed  among  the 
subjects  of  vague  and  metaphysical  speculation ;  but  of  late 
it  has  attained  its  proper  station  in  experimental  philoso- 
phy. The  sober  sense  of  Locke  and  the  enthusiastic  elo- 
quence of  Rousseau  have  directed  to  this  object  the  attention 
of  philosophers  and  men  of  genius.  Many  theories  have 
been  invented,  several  just  observations  have  been  made, 
and  some  few  facts  have  been  established. 

Dr.  Reid  remarks,  that  "if  we  could  obtain  a  distinct 
and  full  history  of  all  that  hath  passed  in  the  mind  of  a 
child  from  the  beginning  of  life  and  sensation  till  it  grows 
up  to  the  use  of  reason,  how  its  infant  faculties  began  to 
work,  and  how  they  brought  forth  and  ripened  all  the  vari- 
ous notions,  opinions,  and  sentiments  which  we  find  in  our- 
selves when  we  come  to  be  capable  of  reflection,  this  would 
be  a  treasure  of  natural  history,  which  would  probably  give 
more  light  to  the  human  faculties  than  all  the  systems  of 
philosophers  about  them  since  the  beginning  of  the  world."* 

Indeed,  in  all  sciences  the  grand  difficulty  has  been  to 


*  Dr.  Reid  on  the  Intellectual  Powers  of  Man. 


PREFACE.  Vll 

ascertain  facts  —  a  difficulty  which,  in  the  science  of  edu- 
cation, peculiar  circumstances  conspire  to  increase.  Here 
the  objects  of  every  experiment  are  so  interesting,  that  we 
cannot  hold  our  minds  indifferent  to  the  result.  Nor  is  it 
to  be  expected  that  many  registers  of  experiments,  success- 
ful and  unsuccessful,  should  be  kept,  much  less  should  be 
published,  when  we  consider,  that  the  combined  powers  of 
affection  and  vanity,  of  partiality  to  his  child  and  to  his 
theory,  will  act  upon  the  mind  of  a  parent,  in  opposition  to 
the  abstract  love  of  justice,  and  the  general  desire  to  in- 
crease the  wisdom  and  happiness  of  mankind. 

Notwithstanding  these  difficulties,  an  attempt  to  keep 
such  a  register  has  actually  been  made :  it  was  begun  in 
the  year  1776,  long  before  Dr.  Reid's  book  was  published. 
The  design  has  from  time  to  time  been  pursued  to  this  pre- 
sent year ;  and  though  much  has  not  been  collected,  every 
circumstance  and  conversation  that  has  been  preserved  is 
faithfully  and  accurately  related. 

These  notes  have  been  of  great  advantage  to  the  writer 
of  the  following  stories,  and  will,  probably,  at  some  future 
time,  be  laid  before  the  public,  as  a  collection  of  experi- 
ments upon  a  subject  which  has  been  hitherto  treated  theo- 
retically. 

The  following  tales  have  been  divided  into  two  parts,  as 
they  were  designed  for  different  classes  of  children.  The 
question,  whether  society  could  subsist  without  the  distinc- 
tion of  ranks,  is  a  question  involving  a  variety  of  compli- 
cated discussions,  which  we  leave  to  the  politician  and  the 
legislator.  At  present,  it  is  necessary  that  the  education 
of  different  ranks  should,  in  some  respects,  be  different : 
they  have  few  ideas,  few  habits,  in  common ;  their  peculiar 
vices  and  virtues  do  not  arise  from  the  same  causes,  and 
their  ambition  is  to  be  directed  to  different  objects.  But 
justice,  truth,  and  humanity  are  confined  to  no  particular 
rank,  and  should  be  enforced  with  equal  care  and  energy 
upon  the  minds  of  young  people  of  every  station  ;  and  it  is 


fill  PKEFA  3  E . 

hoped  that  these  principles  have  never  been  forgotten  in  the 
following  pages. 

As  the  ideas  of  children  multiply,  the  language  of  their 
books  should  become  less  simple,  else  their  taste  will  quickly 
be  disgusted,  or  will  remain  stationary.  Children  that  live 
with  people  who  converse  with  elegance  will  not  be  con- 
tented with  a  style  inferior  to  what  they  hear  from  every- 
body near  them. 

It  may  be  remarked,  that  almost  all  language  is  meta- 
phoric  —  from  the  conversation  of  the  maid  in  the  nursery, 
who  lulls  a  cross  infant  to  sleep,  to  that  of  the  lady  in  the 
drawing-room,  who,  with  silly  civility,  takes  a  child  upon 
her  lap  to  entertain  it  by  a  repetition  of  fashionable 
phrases.  Slang  (the  term  is  disgracefully  naturalized  in 
our  vocabulary)  contains  as  much  and  as  abstract  meta- 
phor as  can  be  found  in  the  most  refined  literary  language. 
Nor  have  we  reason  to  suppose  that  one  kind  of  metaphor 
is  more  difficult  than  another  to  be  understood  by  children ; 
they  frequently  hear  the  most  complicated  metaphorical 
expressions  in  conversation,  such  as  allude  to  our  fashions 
and  the  prejudices  of  society,  with  which  they  are  utterly 
unacquainted. 

All  poetical  allusions  have,  however,  been  avoided  in  this 
book  —  only  such  situations  are  described  as  children  can 
easily  imagine,  and  which  may  consequently  interest  their 
feelings. —  Such  examples  of  virtue  are  painted  as  are  not 
above  their  conception  of  excellence,  and  their  powers  of 
sympathy  and  emulation. 

It  is  not  easy  to  give  rewards  to  children  which  shall  not 
indirectly  do  them  harm,  by  fostering  some  hurtful  taste  or 
passion.  In  the  story  of  Lazy  Lawrence,  where  the  object 
was  to  excite  a  spirit  of  industry,  care  has  been  taken  to 
proportion  the  reward  to  the  exertion,  and  to  point  out  that 
oeople  feel  cheerful  and  happy  while  they  are  employed. 
The  reward  of  our  industrious  boy,  though  it  be  money,  is 
only  mon^y  considered  as  the  means  of  gratifying  a  bene- 


PREFACE.  IX 

volent  wish.  In  a  commercial  nation,  it  is  especially  neces- 
sary to  separate,  as  much  as  possible,  the  spirit  of  industry 
and  avarice,  and  to  beware  lest  we  introduce  Vice  under  the 
form  of  Virtue. 

In  the  story  of  Tarlton  and  Loveit  are  represented  the 
danger  and  folly  of  that  weakness  of  mind,  and  easiness  to 
be  led,  which  too  often  pass  for  good-nature ;  and  in  the 
story  of  the  False  Key  are  pointed  out  some  of  the  evils  to 
which  a  well-educated  boy,  when  he  first  goes  to  service,  is 
exposed,  from  the  profligacy  of  his  fellow-servants. 

In  the  Birth-day  Present,  in  the  History  of  Mademoiselle 
Panache,  and  in  the  character  of  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle,  the 
Parent's  Assistant  has  pointed  out  the  dangers  which  may 
arise  in  education  from  a  bad  servant,  a  silly  governess,  and 
a  common  acquaintance. 

In  the  Barring  Out,  the  errors  to  which  a  high  spirit  and 
the  love  of  party  are  apt  to  lead,  have  been  made  the  sub- 
ject of  correction ;  and  it  is  hoped  that  the  common  fault 
of  making  the  most  mischievous  characters  appear  the  most 
active  and  the  most  ingenious,  has  been  as  much  as  possible 
avoided.  Unsuccessful  cunning  will  not  be  admired,  and 
cannot  induce  imitation. 

It  has  likewise  been  attempted  in  these  stories  to  provide 
antidotes  against  ill-humour,  the  epidemic  rage  for  dissipa- 
tion, and  the  fatal  propensity  to  admire  and  imitate  what- 
ever the  fashion  of  the  moment  may  distinguish.  Were 
young  people,  either  in  public  schools  or  in  private  families, 
absolutely  free  from  bad  examples,  it  would  not  be  advisable 
to  introduce  despicable  and  vicious  characters  in  books  in- 
tended for  their  improvement.  But  in  real  life  they  must 
sec  vice,  and  it  is  best  that  they  should  be  early  shocked 
with  the  representation  of  what  they  are  to  avoid.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  difference  between  innocence  and  igno- 
rance. 

To  prevent  precepts  of  morality  from  tiring  the  ear  and 
the  mind,  it  was  necessary  to  make  the  stories  in  which 


X  PREFACE. 

they  are  introduced  in  some  measure  dramatic,  to  keep  alive 
hope,  and  fear,  and  curiosity,  by  some  degree  of  intricacy. 
At  the  same  time  care  has  been  taken  to  avoid  inflaming 
the  imagination,  or  exciting  a  restless  spirit  of  adventure, 
by  exhibiting  false  views  of  life,  and  creating  hopes  which, 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  cannot  be  realized. 

Dr.  Johnson  —  to  recur  to  him,  not  from  a  spirit  of  con- 
tradiction, but  from  a  fear  that  his  authority  should  estab- 
lish errors  —  Dr.  Johnson  says,  that  "Babies  do  not  like  to 
hear  stories  of  babies  like  themselves  ;  they  require  to  have 
their  imaginations  raised  by  tales  of  giants,  and  fairies,  and 
castles,  and  enchantments."  The  fact  remains  to  be  proved : 
but  supposing  that  they  do  prefer  such  tales,  is  this}  a  reason 
•why  they  should  be  indulged  in  reading  them  ?  It  may  be 
said  that  a  little  experience  in  life  would  soon  convince 
them  that  fairies,  giants,  and  enchanters  are  not  to  be  met 
with  in  the  world.  But  why  should  the  mind  be  filled  with 
fantastic  visions,  instead  of  useful  knowledge  ?  Why  should 
so  much  valuable  time  be  lost?  "Why  should  we  vitiate 
their  taste  and  spoil  their  appetite  by  suffering  them  to  feed 
upon  sweetmeats  ?  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  magic  of  Dr. 
Johnson's  name  will  not  have  power  to  restore  the  reign  of 
fairies. 

But  even  when  the  improbability  of  fairy  tales  is  avoided, 
care  should  be  taken  to  keep  objects  in  their  just  propor- 
tions, when  we  attempt  an  imitation  of  real  life. 

"  Love,  hatred,  fear,  and  anger  are  to  be  raised  in  the 
soul,"  says  an  eminent  poet,  "  by  showing  their  objects  out 
of  their  true  proportion,  either  greater  than  the  life  or  less ; 
but  instruction  is  to  be  given  by  showing  them  what  they 
really  are." 

And  surely  a  writer  who  sincerely  wishes  to  increase  the 
happiness  of  mankind  will  find  it  easy  to  give  up  the  fame 
that  nr.ignt  be  acquired  by  eloquence,  when  it  is  injurious 
to  the  cause  of  truth 


LAZY  LAWRENCE 


In  the  pleasant  village  of  Ashton  there  lived  an  elderly 
woman  of  the  name  of  Preston :  she  had  a  small  neat  cot- 
tage, and  there  was  not  a  weed  to  be  seen  in  her  garden. 
It  was  upon  her  garden  that  she  chiefly  depended  for  sup- 
port :  it  consisted  of  strawberry  beds,  and  one  small  border 
for  flowers.  The  pinks  and  roses  she  tied  up  in  nice  nose- 
gays, and  sent  either  to  Clifton  or  Bristol  to  be  sold ;  as  to 
her  strawberries,  she  did  not  send  them  to  market,  because 
it  was  the  custom  for  numbers  of  people  to  come  from  Clif- 
ton, in  the  summer-time,  to  eat  strawberries  and  cream  in 
the  gardens  at  Ashton. 

Now  the  widow  Preston  was  so  obliging,  active,  and 
good-humoured,  that  every  one  who  came  to  see  her  was 
pleased.  She  lived  happily  in  this  manner  for  several 
years  ;  but  alas  !  one  autumn  she  fell  sick,  and  during  her 
illness  every  thing  went  wrong ;  her  garden  was  neglected, 
her  cow  died,  and  all  the  money  which  she  had  saved  was 
spent  in  paying  for  medicines.  The  winter  passed  away, 
while  she  was  so  weak  that  she  could  earn  but  little  ty  her 
work ;  and  when  the  summer  came,  her  rent  was  called  for, 
and  the  rent  was  not  ready  in  her  little  purse  as  usual.  She 
begged  a  few  months'  delay,  and  they  were  granted  to  her ; 
but  at  the  end  of  that  time  there  was  no  resource  but  to  sell 
her  horse  Lightfoot.  Now  Lightfoot,  though  perhaps  he 
had  seen  his  best  days,  was  a  very  great  favourite  ;  in  his 
youth  he  had  always  carried  the  dame  to  market  behind 

(xi) 


12  LAZY     LAWRENCE 

her  husband ;  and  it  was  now  her  little  son  Jem's  turn  to 
ride  him.  It  was  Jem's  business  to  feed  Lightfoot,  and  to 
take  care  of  him ;  a  charge  which  he  never  neglected,  for, 
besides  being  a  very  good-natured,  he  was  a  very  industri- 
ous boy. 

"  It  will  go  near  to  break  my  Jem's  heart,"  said  Dame 
Preston  to  herself  as  she  sat  one  evening  beside  the  fire, 
stirring  the  embers,  and  considering  how  she  had  best  open 
the  matter  to  her  son,  who  stood  opposite  to  her,  eating  a 
dry  crust  of  bread  very  heartily  for  supper. 

"Jem,"  said  the  old  woman,  "what,  art  hungry?" 

"  That  I  am,  brave  and  hungry  !" 

"Ay!  no  wonder,  you've  been  brave  hard  at  work  — 
Eh?" 

"  Brave  hard !  I  wish  it  was  not  so  dark,  mother,  that 
you  might  just  step  out  and  see  the  great  bed  I  've  dug ;  I 
know  you  'd  say  it  was  no  bad  day's  work — and,  oh  mother  I 
I  've  good  news  ;  Farmer  Truck  will  give  us  the  giant-straw- 
berries ;  and  I  'm  to  go  for  'em  to-morrow  morning,  and  I'll 
be  back  afore  breakfast !" 

"  Bless  the  boy  !  how  he  talks !  Four  mile  there  and  four 
mile  back  again,  afore  breakfast  I" 

"Ay,  upon  Lightfoot,  you  know,  mother,  very  easily, 
mayn't  I?" 

"  Ay,  child  \" 

"Why  do  you  sigh,  mother?" 

"  Finish  thy  supper,  child." 

"  I  've  done  !"  cried  Jem,  swallowing  the  last  mouthful 
hastily,  as  if  he  thought  he  had  been  too  long  at  supper ; 
"  and  now  for  the  great  needle  ;  I  must  see  and  mend  Light- 
foot's  bridle  afore  I  go  to  bed."  To  work  he  set,  by  th<- 
light  of  the  fire ;  and  the  dame,  having  once  more  stirred 
it,  began  again  with  "  Jem,  dear,  does  he  go  lame  at  all 
now  ?"  "  What,  Lightfoot !  0  la,  no,  not  he  !  —  never  was 
so  well  of  his  lameness  in  all  his  life  —  he's  grown  quite 
youug  again,  I  think ;  and  then  he 's  so  fat  he  can  hardlr 


LAZY    LAWRENCE.  13 

wag"  "Bless  him  —  that's  right  —  we  must  see,  Jem, 
and  keep  him  fat." 

"For  what,  mother?" 

"  For  Monday  fortnight  at  the  fair.     He  's  to  be  —  sold  I" 

"  Lightfoot  I"  cried  Jem,  and  let  the  bridle  fall  from  his 
hand ;  "  and  will  mother  sell  Lightfoot  ?" 

"  Will!  no :  but  I  must,  Jem." 

"Must;  who  says  you  must?  why  must  you,  mother?" 

"I  must,  I  say,  child — Why,  must  not  I  pay  my  debts 
honestly  —  and  must  not  I  pay  my  rent ;  and  was  not  it 
called  for  long  and  long  ago ;  and  have  not  I  had  time ; 
and  did  I  not  promise  to  pay  it  for  certain  Monday  fort- 
night, and  am  not  I  two  guineas  short  —  and  where  am  I 
to  get  two  guineas?  So  what  signifies  talking,  child?" 
said  the  widow,  leaning  her  head  upon  her  arm,  "  Lightfoot 
must  go." 

Jem  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  "  Two  guineas  ;  that's 
a  great,  great  deal.  If  I  worked,  and  worked,  and  worked 
ever  so  hard,  I  could  no  ways  earn  two  guineas  afore  Mon- 
day fortnight  —  could  I,  mother  V* 

"  Lord  help  thee,  no ;  not  an'  work  thyself  to  death." 

"But  I  could  earn  something,  though,  I  say,"  cried 
Jem,  proudly;  "and  I  will  earn  something  —  if  it  be  ever 
so  little,  it  will  be  something  —  and  I  shall  do  my  very  best , 
so  I  will." 

"  That  I'm  sure  of,  my  child,"  said  his  mother,  drawing 
him  towards  her,  and  kissing  him ;  "  you  were  always  a 
good  industrious  lad,  that  I  will  say  afore  your  face  or  be- 
hind your  back;  —  but  it  won't  do  now — Lightfoot  must 
go." 

Jem  turned  away,  struggling  to  hide  his  tears,  and  went 
to  bed  without  saying  a  word  more.  But  he  knew  that  cry- 
ing would  do  no  good :  so  he  presently  wiped  his  eyes,  and 
lay  awake,  considering  what  he  could  possibly  do  to  save 
the  horse.  "  If  I  get  ever  so  little,"  he  still  said  to  himself, 
"  it  will  be  something  ;  and  who  knows  Dut  landlord  might 


14  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

then  wait  a  bit  longer  ?  and  we  might  make  it  all  u£  in 
time :  for  a  penny  a  day  might  come  to  two  guineas  in 
time." 

But  how  to  get  the  first  penny  was  the  question.  Then 
he  recollected  that  one  day  when  he  had  been  sent  to  Clif- 
ton to  sell  some  flowers  he  had  seen  an  old  woman  with  a 
board  beside  her  covered  with  various  sparkling  stones, 
which  people  stopped  to  look  at  as  they  passed,  and  he  re- 
membered that  some  people  bought  the  stones ;  one  paid 
twopence,  another  threepence,  and  another  sixpence  for 
them  ;  and  Jem  heard  her  say  that  she  got  them  among  the 
neighbouring  rocks:  so  he  thought  that  if  he  tried  he 
might  find  some  too,  and  sell  them  as  she  had  done. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  waked  full  of  his  schemes, 
jumped  up,  dressed  himself,  and  having  given  one  look  at 
poor  Lightfoot  in  his  stable,  set  off  to  Clifton  in  search  of 
the  old  woman,  to  inquire  where  she  found  her  sparkling 
stones.  But  it  was  too  early  in  the  morning,  the  old  woman 
was  not  at  her  seat ;  so  he  turned  back  again  disappointed. 
He  did  not  waste  his  time  waiting  for  her,  but  saddled  and 
bridled  Lightfoot,  and  went  to  Farmer  Truck's  for  the  giant- 
strawberries.  A  great  part  of  the  morning  was  spent  in 
putting  them  into  the  ground ;  and  as  soon  as  that  was 
finished,  he  set  out  again  in  quest  of  the  old  woman,  who, 
to  his  great  joy,  he  spied  sitting  at  the  oorner  of  the  street 
with  her  board  before  her.  But  this  old  woman  was  deaf  and 
cross  ;  and  when  at  last  Jem  made  her  hear  his  questions, 
he  could  get  no  answer  from  her,  but  that  she  found  the 
fossils  where  he  would  never  find  any  more.  "  But  can't  I 
look  where  you  looked?"  "Look  away,  nobody  hinders 
you,"  replied  the  old  woman ;  and  these  were  the  only 
words  she  would  say.  Jem  was  not,  however,  a  boy  to  be 
so  easily  discouraged;  he  went  to  the  rocks,  and  walked 
slowly  along,  looking  at  all  the  stones  as  he  passed.  Pre- 
sently he  came  to  a  place  where  a  number  of  men  were  at 
work  loosening  some  large  rocks,  and  cne  among  the  work 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  15 

men  was  stooping  down  looking  for  something  very  eagerly : 
Jem  ran  up,  and  asked  if  he  could  help  him.  "  Yes,"  said 
the  man,  " you  can ;  I've  just  dropped  among  this  heap  of 
rubbish  a  fine  piece  of  crystal  that  I  got  to-day."  "What 
kind  of  a  looking  thing  is  it  V  said  Jem.  "  White,  and  like 
glass,"  said  the  man,  and  went  on  working  while  Jem  looked 
very  carefully  over  the  heap  of  rubbish  for  a  great  while. 
" Come,"  said  the  man,  " it's  gone  for  ever ;  don't  trouble 
yourself  any  more,  my  boy."  "It's  no  trouble;  I'll  look 
a  little  longer ;  we  '11  not  give  it  up  so  soon,"  said  Jem ;  and 
after  he  had  looked  a  little  longer,  he  found  the  piece  of 
crystal.  "  Thank 'e,"  said  the  man,  "you  are  a  fine  little 
industrious  fellow."  Jem,  encouraged  by  the  tone  of  voice 
in  which  the  man  spoke  this,  ventured  to  ask  him  the  same 
questions  which  he  asked  the  old  woman.  "  One  good  turn 
deserves  another,"  said  the  man ;  "  we  are  going  to  dinner 
just  now,  and  shall  leave  off  work  —  wait  for  me  here,  and 
I  '11  make  it  worth  your  while." 

Jem  waited ;  and  as  he  was  very  attentively  observing 
how  the  workmen  went  on  with  their  work,  he  heard  some- 
body near  him  give  a  great  yawn,  and  turning  round,  he 
saw  stretched  upon  the  grass  beside  the  river  a  boy  about 
his  own  age,  who  he  knew  very  well  went  in  the  village  of 
Ashton  by  the  name  of  Lazy  Lawrence ;  a  name  which  he 
most  justly  deserved,  for  he  never  did  anything  from  morn- 
ing to  night ;  he  neither  worked  nor  played,  but  sauntered 
or  lounged  about  restless  and  yawning.  His  father  was  an 
alehouse-keeper,  and  being  generally  drunk,  could  take  no 
care  of  his  son ;  so  that  Lazy  Lawrence  grew  every  day 
worse  and  worse.  However,  some  of  the  neighbours  said 
that  he  was  a  good-natured  poor  fellow  enough,  and  would 
never  do  any  one  harm  but  himself;  while  others,  who  were 
wiser,  often  shook  their  heads,  and  told  him  that  idleness 
was  the  root  of  all  evil. 

"  What,  Lawrence  !"  cried  Jem  to  him,  when  he  saw  him 
lying  upon  the  grass,  "what,  are  you  asleep?"  —  "Not 


16  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

quite."  —  "  Ave  you  awake  V  —  "  Not  quite."  — '"  What  are 
you  doing  there  t"  —  *'  Nothing."  —  "  What  are  you  think- 
ing of?"  —  "  Nothing."  —  "  What  makes  you  lie  there  ?"  — 
'  I  do  n't  know  —  because  I  can't  find  anybody  to  play  with 
me  to-day  —  will  you  come  and  play  ?'  —  "  No,  I  can't ;  I'm 
busy."  —  "Busy!"  cried  Lawrence,  stretching  himself, 
"you  are  always  busy  —  I  would  not  be  you  for  the  world, 
to  have  so  much  to  do  always."  — "  And  I,"  said  Jem, 
laughing,  "  would  not  be  you  for  the  world,  to  have  nothing 
to  do."  So  they  parted,  for  the  workman  just  then  called 
Jem  to  follow  him.  He  took  him  home  to  his  own  house, 
and  showed  him  a  parcel  of  fossils  which  he  had  gathered, 
he  said,  on  purpose  to  sell,  but  had  never  had  time  yet  to 
sort  them.  He  set  about  it,  however,  now;  and  having 
picked  out  those  which  he  judged  to  be  the  best,  he  put 
them  into  a  small  basket,  and  gave  them  to  Jem  to  sell, 
upon  condition  that  he  should  bring  him  half  of  what  he  got. 
Jem,  pleased  to  be  employed,  was  ready  to  agree  to  what 
the  man  proposed,  provided  his  mother  had  no  objection  to 
it.  When  he  went  home  to  dinner,  he  told  his  mother  his 
scheme,  and  she  smiled  and  said  he  might  do  as  he  pleased, 
for  she  was  not  afraid  of  his  being  from  home.  "  You  are 
not  an  idle  boy,"  said  she,  "  so  there  is  little  danger  of  your 
getting  into  any  mischief." 

Accordingly  Jem  that  evening  took  his  stand  with  his 
little  basket  upon  the  bank  of  the  river,  just  at  the  place 
where  people  land  from  a  ferryboat,  and  where  the  walk 
turns  to  the  wells,  where  numbers  of  people  perpetually 
pass  to  drink  the  waters.  He  chose  his  place  well,  and 
waited  almost  all  evening,  offering  his  fossils  with  great 
assiduity  to  every  passenger ;  but  not  one  person  bought 
any.  "  Holloa !"  cried  some  sailors  who  had  just  rowed  a 
boat  to  land,  "  bear  a  hand  here,  will  you,  my  little  fellow ! 
and  carry  these  parcels  for  us  into  yonder  house."  Jem 
ran  down  immediately  for  the  parcels,  and  did  what  he  was 
asked  to  do  so  quickly,  and  with  so  much  good  will,  thai 


LAZI     LAWRENCE.  17 

the  master  of  the  boat  took  notice  of  him,  and  when  he  was 
going  away,  stopped  to  ask  him  what  he  had  got  in  his  little 
basket ;  and  when  he  saw  that  they  were  fossils,  he  imme- 
diately told  Jem  to  follow  him,  for  that  he  was  going  to 
carry  some  shells  he  had  brought  from  abroad  to  a  lady  in 
the  neighbourhood  who  was  making  a  grotto.  "  She  will 
* ery  likely  buy  your  stones  into  the  bargain ;  come  along, 
my  lad,  we  can  but  try." 

The  lady  lived  but  a  very  little  way  off,  so  that  they  were 
soon  at  her  house.  She  was  alone  in  her  parlour,  and  was 
sorting  a  bundle  of  feathers  of  different  colours ;  they  lay 
on  a  sheet  of  pasteboard  upon  a  window-seat,  and  it  hap- 
pened that  as  the  sailor  was  bustling  round  the  table  to  show 
off  his  shells,  he  knocked  down  the  sheet  of  pasteboard,  and 
scattered  all  the  feathers. 

The  lady  looked  very  sorry,  which  Jem  observing,  he  took 
the  opportunity,  while  she  was  busy  looking  over  the  sailor's 
bag  of  shells,  to  gather  together  all  the  feathers,  and  sort 
them  according  to  their  different  colours,  as  he  had  seen 
them  sorted  when  he  first  came  into  the  room. 

"  Where  is  the  little  boy  you  brought  with  you  ?  I  thought 
I  saw  him  here  just  now."  — "  And  here  I  am,  ma'am," 
cried  Jem,  creeping  from  under  the  table  with  some  few 
remaining  feathers  which  he  had  picked  from  the  carpet; 
"I  thought,"  added  he,  pointing  to  the  others,  "  I  had  better 
be  doing  something  than  standing  idle,  ma'am."  She 
smiled,  and  pleased  with  his  activity  and  simplicity,  began 
to  ask  him  several  questions,  such  as  who  he  was,  where 
he  lived,  what  employment  he  had,  and  how  much  a-day  he 
earned  by  gathering  fossils.  "  This  is  the  first  day  i  ever 
tried,"  said  Jem  ;  "  I  never  sold  any  yet,  and  if  you  do  n't 
buy  them  now,  ma'am,  I  'm  afraid  nobody  else  will,  .or  I  've 
asked  everybody  else."  —-"  Come,  then,"  said  the  lady, 
laughing,  "  if  that  is  the  case,  I  think  I  had  better  buy  them 
all."  So  emptying  all  the  fossils  out  of  his  basket,  she  put 
half  a  cro^n  into  it.     Jem's  eyes  sparkled  with  joy,     "Oht 


18  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "  I  will  be  sure  and  bring  you 
as  many  more  to-morrow."  —  "  Yes,  but  I  do  n't  nromise 
you,"  said  she,  "to  give  you  half  a  crown  to-morrow."  — 
"  But  perhaps,  though  you  do  n't  promise  it,  you  will."  — 
"  No,"  said  the  lady,  "  do  not  deceive  yourself,  I  assure  you 
that  I  will  not.  That,  instead  of  encouraging  you  to  be 
industrious,  would  teach  you  to  be  idle."  Jem  did  not  quite 
understand  what  she  meant  by  this,  but  answered,  "  I  'm 
sure  I  do  n't  wish  to  be  idle  ;  what  I  want  is  to  earn  some- 
thing every  day,  if  I  knew  how :  I  'm  sure  I  do  n't  wish  to 
be  idle.  If  you  knew  all,  you  'd  know  I  did  not."  —  "  How 
do  you  mean,  If  I  knew  all?"  —  "  Why,  I  mean  if  you  knew 
about  Lightfoot."  —  "  Who 's  Lightfoot  ?"  —  "  Why,  mam- 
my's horse,"  added  Jem,  looking  out  of  the  window ;  "  I 
must  make  haste  home  and  feed  him  afore  it  gets  dark ; 
he'll  wonder  what's  gone  with  me."  —  "Let  him  wonder 
a  few  minutes  longer,"  said  the  lady,  "  and  tell  me  the  rest  of 
your  story."  —  "I 've  no  story,  ma'am,  to  tell,  but  as  how 
mammy  says  he  must  go  to  the  fair  Monday  fortnight  to  be 
sold,  if  she  can't  get  the  two  guineas  for  her  rent ;  and  I 
should  be  main  sorry  to  part  with  him,  for  I  love  him  and 
he  loves  me  ;  so  I  '11  work  for  him,  I  will,  all  I  can :  to  be 
sure,  as  mammy  says,  I  have  no  chance,  such  a  little  fellow 
as  I  am,  of  earning  two  guineas  afore  Monday  fortnight." — 
"  But  are  you  in  earnest  willing  to  work  ?"  said  the  lady ; 
"  you  know  there  is  a  great  deal  of  difference  between  picking 
up  a  few  stones  and  working  steadily  every  day  and  all  day 
long."  —  "But,"  said  Jem,  "I  would  work  every  day  and 
all  daylong."  —  "Then,"  said  the  lady,  "I  will  give  you 
work.  Come  here  to-morrow  morning,  and  my  gardener 
will  set  you  to  weed  the  shrubberies,  and  I  will  pay  you 
sixpence  a-day.  Remember,  you  must  be  at  the  gates  by 
six  o'clock."  Jem  bowed,  thanked  her,  and  went  away.  It 
was  late  in  the  evening,  and  he  was  impatient  to  get  home 
to  feed  Lightfoot ;  yet  he  recollected  that  he  had  promised 
the  man  who  had  trusted  him  to  sell  the  fossils,  that  h« 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  19 

would  bring  him  half  of  what  he  got  for  them ;  so  he 
thought  that  he  had  better  go  to  him  directly ;  and  away  he 
went,  running  along  by  the  water-side  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  till  he  came  to  the  man's  house.  He  was  just  come 
dome  from  work,  and  was  surprised  when  Jem  showed  him 
the  half-crown,  saying,  "  Look  what  I  got  for  the  stones : 
you  are  to  have  half  you  know."  — "  No,"  said  the  man, 
when  he  had  heard  his  story,  "  I  shall  not  take  half  of  that ; 
it  was  given  to  you.  I  expected  but  a  shilling  at  the  most, 
and  the  half  of  that  is  but  sixpence,  and  that  I  '11  take.  — 
Wife,  give  the  lad  two  shillings,  and  take  this  half-crown/'' 
So  his  wife  opened  an  old  glove,  and  took  out  two  shiHings ; 
and  the  man,  as  she  opened  the  glove,  put  in  his  fingers, 
and  took  out  a  little  silver  penny.  —  "  There,  he  shall  have 
that  into  the  bargain  for  his  honesty  —  honesty  is  the  best 
policy  —  there's  a  lucky  penny  for  you,  that  I've  kept  eve* 
since  I  can  remember."  —  "  Do  n't  you  ever  go  to  part  with 
it,  do  ye  hear?"  cried  the  woman.  "Let  him  do  what  he 
will  with  it,  wife,"  said  the  man.  "  But,"  argued  the  wife, 
"another  penny  would  do  just  as  well  to  buy  gingerbread, 
and  that 's  what  it  will  go  for."  —  "  No,  that  it  shall  not,  I 
promise  you,"  said  Jem ;  and  so  he  ran  away  home,  fed 
Lightfoot,  stroked  him,  went  to  bed,  jumped  up  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  went  singing  to  work  as  gay  as 
a  lark. 

Four  days  he  worked,  "  every  day  and  all  day  long ;"  and 
the  lady  every  evening,  when  she  came  out  to  walk  in  her 
gardens,  looked  at  his  work.  At. last  she  said  to  her  gar- 
dener, "  This  little  boy  works  very  hard."  —  "  Never  had  so 
good  a  little  boy  about  the  grounds,"  said  the  gardener ; 
"  he  's  always  at  his  work,  let  me  come  by  when  I  will,  and 
he  has  got  twice  as  much  done  as  another  would  do  ;  yes, 
twice  as  much,  ma'am;  for  look  here  —  he  began  at  this 
here  rosebush,  and  now  he 's  got  to  where  you  stand,  ma'am ; 
and  here  is  the  day's  work  that  t'other  boy,  and  he 's  three 
years  older,  too,  did  to-d»v.     I  say,  measure  Jem's  ftirly 


20  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

and  it 's  twice  as  much,  I  'm  sure."  —  "  Well,"  said  the  lady 
to  her  gardener,  "  show  me  how  much  is  a  fair  good  day's 
work  for  a  boy  of  his  age."  —  "  Come  at  six  and  go  at  six? 
why,  about  this  much,  ma'am,"  said  the  gardener,  marking 
off  a  piece  of  the  border  with  his  spade.  "  Then,  little 
boy,"  said  the  lady,  "  so  much  shall  be  your  task  every  day  ; 
the  gardener  will  mark  it  off  for  you ;  and  when  you  've 
done,  the  rest  of  the  day  you  may  do  what  you  please."  Jem 
was  extremely  glad  of  this ;  and  the  next  day  he  had  fin- 
ished his  task  by  four  o'clock,  so  that  he  had  all  the  rest  of 
the  evening  to  himself.  Jem  was  as  fond  of  play  as  anj 
little  boy  could  be  ;  and  when  he  was  at  it,  played  with  all 
the  eagerness  and  gaiety  imaginable :  so,  as  soon  as  he  had 
finished  his  task,  had  fed  Lightfoot,  and  put  by  the  sixpence 
he  had  earned  that  day,  he  ran  to  the  play-ground  in  the 
village,  where  he  found  a  party  of  boys  playing,  and  among 
them  Lazy  Lawrence,  who  indeed  was  not  playing,  but 
lounging  upon  a  gate  with  his  thumb  in  his  mouth.  The 
rest  were  playing  at  cricket.  Jem  joined  them,  and  was 
the  merriest  and  most  active  among  them  ;  till,  at  last,  when 
quite  out  of  breath  with  running,  he  was  obliged  to  give  up 
to  rest  himself,  and  sat  down  upon  the  stile,  close  to  the  gate 
on  which  Lazy  Lawrence  was  swinging.  "  And  why  do  n't 
you  play,  Lawrence  ?"  said  he.  "  I  'm  tired,"  said  Law- 
rence. "  Tired  of  what  ?"  —  "I  do  n't  know  well  what  tires 
me :  grandmother  says  I  'm  ill,  and  I  must  take  something 

—  I  do  n't  know  what  ails  me."  —  "  Oh,  pugh !  take  a  good 
race ;  one,  two,  three,  and  away,  and  you  '11  find  yourself 
as  well  as  ever.     Come,  run,  —  one,  two,  three,  and  away." 

—  "Ah,  no,  I  can't  run,  indeed,"  said  he,  hanging  back 
heavily ;  "  you  know  I  can  play  all  day  long,  if  I  like  it,  so 
I  do  n't  mind  play  as  you  do,  who  have  only  one  hour  for  it." 
— "  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  Come,  now,  I  'm  quite 
fresh  again,  will  you  have  one  game  at  ball?  do."  —  "No, 
I  tell  you,  1  can't ;  I'm  as  tired  as  if  I  had  been  working 
all  day  long  as  hard  as  a  horse."  —  "  Ten  times  more  "  said 


CLOSE   TO  THE    GATE  OX   WHTCH    LAZY  LAWRENCE  WAS  SWINGING. 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  21 

Jem,  "  For  I  have  been  working  all  day  long  as  hard  as  a 
horse,  and  yet  you  see  I  'm  not  a  bit  tired  ;  only  a  little  out 
of  breath  just  now"  —  "That's  very  odd,"  said  Lawrence, 
and  yawned,  for  want  of  some  better  answer;  then  taking 
out  a  handful  of  halfpence,  "  See  what  I  have  got  from 
father  to-day,  because  I  asked  him  just  at  the  right  time, 
when  he  had  drunk  a  glass  or  two  ;  then  I  can  get  anything 
I  want  out  of  him.  See !  a  penny,  twopence,  threepence, 
fourpence  —  there's  eightpence  in  all!  would  not  you  be 
happy  if  you  had  eightpence?"  —  "  Why,  I  don't  know," 
said  Jem,  laughing,  "  for  you  do  n't  seem  happy,  and  you 
have  eightpence"  —  "That  does  not  signify,  though  —  I'm 
sure  you  only  say  that  because  you  envy  me  —  you  do  n't 
know  what  it  is  to  have  eightpence ;  you  never  had  more 
than  twopence  or  threepence  at  a  time  in  all  your  life." 
Jem  smiled.  "  Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  he,  "  you  are  mistaken  ; 
fori  have  at  this  very  time  more  than  twopence,  threepence, 
or  eightpence  either;  I  have  —  let  me  see — stones,  two 
shillings  ;  then  five  days'  work,  that 's  five  sixpences,  that  'i 
two  shillings  and  sixpence,  in  all  makes  four  shillings  and 
sixpence,  and  my  silver  penny,  is  four  and  sevenpence. 
Four  and  sevenpence  !"  —  "  You  have  not,"  said  Lawrence,, 
roused  so  as  absolutely  to  stand  upright ;  "  four  and  seven- 
pence  !  have  you  ?  Show  it  to  me,  and  then  I  '11  believe 
you."  —  "Follow  me,  then,"  cried  Jem,  "  and  I  will  soon 
make  you  believe  me  ;  come."  —  "  Is  it  far?"  said  Lawrence, 
following,  half-running,  half-hobbling,  till  he  came  to  the 
stable,  where  Jem  showed  him  his  treasure.  "  And  how 
did  you  come  by  it  ?  honestly  ?"  —  "  Honestly  !  to  be  sure  I 
did :  I  earned  it  all."  —  "  Bless  me  !  earned  it !  well,  I  've 
a  great  mind  to  work ;  but  then  it 's  such  hot  weather ;  be- 
sides, grandmother  says  I  'm  not  strong  enough  yet  for  hard 
work ;  and,  besides,  I  know  how  to  coax  daddy  out  of  mcney 
when  I  w^nt  it ;  so  I  need  not  work.  But  four  and  seven- 
pence  !  let's  see,  what  will  you  do  with  it  all ?"  —  "  That's 
a  secret,"  said  Jem,  looking  great.     "  I  can  guess.     I  know 


22  LAZY    LAWRENCE. 

what  I  'd  do  with  it  if  it  was  mine.  First,  I  'd  buy  pocket- 
fuls  of  gingerbread ;  then  I  'd  buy  ever  so  many  apples  and 
nuts :  do  n't  you  love  nuts  ?  I  'd  buy  nuts  enough  to  last  me 
from  this  time  to  Christmas,  and  I  'd  make  little  Newton 
crack  'em  for  me  ;  for  that 's  the  worst  of  nuts,  there 's  the 
trouble  of  cracking  'em."  —  "Well,  you  never  deserve  to 
have  a  nut."  —  "  But  you  '11  give  me  some  of  yours,"  said 
Lawrence,  in  a  fawning  tone,  for  he  thought  it  easier  to 
coax  than  to  work,  —  "you'll  give  me  some  of  your  good 
things,  won't  you ?"  —  "I  shall  not  have  any  of  those  good 
things,"  said  Jem.  "  Then  what  will  you  do  with  all  your 
money  ?"  —  "  Oh,  I  know  very  well  what  to  do  with  it :  but, 
as  I  told  you,  that 's  a  secret,  and  I  shan't  tell  it  anybody. 
Come,  now,  let's  go  back  and  play ;  their  game 's  up,  I  dare 
say."  Lawrence  vent  back  with  him,  full  of  curiosity,  and 
out  of  humour  with  himself  and  his  eightpence.  "  If  I  had 
four  and  sevenpence,"  said  he  to  himself,  "I  certainly 
should  be  happy !" 

The  next  day,  as  usual,  Jem  jumped  up  before  six  o'clock 
and  went  to  his  work,  while  Lazy  Lawrence  sauntered  about 
without  knowing  what  to  do  with  himself.  In  the  course 
of  two  days  he  laid  out  sixpence  of  his  money  in  apples  and 
gingerbread,  and  as  long  as  these  lasted  he  found  himself 
well  received  by  his  companions ;  but  at  length  the  third 
day  he  spent  his  last  halfpenny,  and  when  it  was  gone,  un- 
fortunately some  nuts  tempted  him  very  much,  but  he  had 
no  money  to  pay  for  them  ;  s  i  he  ran  home  to  coax  his  fa- 
th  er,  as  he  called  it.  When  he  got  home,  he  heard  his  father 
talking  very  loud,  and  at  first  he  thought  he  was  drunk ;  but 
when  he  opened  the  kitchen-door,  he  saw  that  he  was  not 
drunk,  but  angry. 

"You  lazy  dog!"  cried  he,  turning  suddenly  upon  Law- 
rence, and  giving  him  such  a  violent  box  on  the  ear  as  made 
the  light  flash  from  his  eyes ;  "  you  lazy  dog !  see  what 
you  've  done  for  me  !  look !  —  look,  look,  I  say !"  Lawrence 
looked  as  soon  as  he  came  to  the  use  of  his  senses,  and  with 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  23 

fear  amazement,  and  remorse,  beheM  at  least  a  dozen  bot- 
tles bimst,  and  the  fine  Worcestershire  cider  streaming  over 
the  floor.  "  Now,  did  I  not  order  you  three  days  ago  to 
carry  these  bottles  to  the  cellar  ?  and  did  not  I  charge  you 
to  wire  the  corks  ?  answer  mc,  you  lazy  rascal !  did  not  I V 
—  "  Yes/'  said  Lawrence,  scratching  his  head.  "  And  why 
was  it  not  done,  I  ask  you  ?"  cried  his  father,  with  renewed 
anger,  as  another  bottle  burst  at  the  moment.  "  What  do 
you  stand  there  for,  you  lazy  brat  ?  why  do  n't  you  move,  I 
say  ?  No,  no,"  catching  hold  of  him,  "  I  believe  you  can't 
move  ;  but  I  '11  make  you."  And  he  shook  him,  till  Law- 
rence was  so  giddy  he  could  not  stand.  "  What  had  you  to 
think  of?  what  had  you  to  do  all  day  long,  that  you  could 
not  carry  my  cider,  my  Worcestershire  cider,  to  the  cellar 
when  I  bid  you  ?  But  go,  you  '11  never  be  good  for  anything, 
you  are  such  a  lazy  rascal !  get  out  of  my  sight !"  So  say* 
ing,  he  pushed  him  out  of  the  house-door,  and  Lawrence 
sneaked  off,  seeing  that  this  was  no  time  to  make  his  peti- 
tion for  halfpence. 

The  next  day  he  saw  the  nuts  again,  and  wishing  for  them 
more  than  ever,  went  home  in  hopes  that  his  father,  as  he 
said  to  himself,  would  be  in  a  better  humour.  But  the  cider 
was  still  fresh  in  his  recollection ;  and  the  moment  Law- 
rence began  to  whisper  the  word  "  halfpenny  "  in  his  ear,  his 
father  swore  with  a  loud  oath,  "  I  will  not  give  you  a  half- 
penny, no,  not  a  farthing,  for  a  month  to  come  ;  if  you  want 
money,  go  work  for  it ;  I  've  had  enough  of  your  laziness.  Go 
work  !"  At  these  terrible  words  Lawrence  burst  into  tears, 
and  going  to  the  side  of  a  ditch,  sat  down  and  cried  for  an 
hour ;  and  when  he  had  cried  till  he  could  cry  no  more,  he  ex 
erted  himself  so  far  as  to  empty  his  pockets,  to  see  whether 
there  might  not  happen  to  be  one  halfpenny  left ;  and  to  his 
great  joy,  in  the  farthest  corner  of  his  pocket  one  halfpenny 
was  found.  With  this  he  proceeded  to  the  fruit-woman's  stall. 
She  was  busy  weighing  out  some  plums,  so  he  was  obliged 
to  wait ;  and  while  he  was  waiting,  he  heard  some  people 


24  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

near  him  talking  and  laughing  very  loud.  The  fruithwo- 
man's  stall  was  at  the  gate  of  an  inn-yard ;  and  peeping 
through  the  gate  in  this  yard,  Lawrence  saw  a  postilion  and 
stable-boy  about  his  own  size  playing  at  piteh-farthing.  He 
stood  by  watching  them  for  a  few  minutes.  "  I  began  with 
but  one  halfpenny,"  cried  the  stable-boy,  with  an  oath, 
"  and  now  I  've  got  twopence  \"  added  he,  jingling  the  half- 
pence in  his  waistcoat-pocket.  Lawrence  was  moved  at  the 
sound,  and  said  to  himself,  "  If  I  begin  with  one  half-penny, 
I  may  end  like  him  with  having  twopence  ;  and  it  is  easier 
to  play  at  pitch-farthing  than  to  work." 

So  he  stepped  forward,  presenting  his  halfpenny,  offering 
to  toss  up  with  the  stable-boy,  who,  after  looking  him  full 
in  the  face,  accepted  the  proposal,  and  threw  his  halfpenny 
into  the  air.  "  Head  or  tail  V-  cried  he.  "  Head,"  replied 
Lawrence,  and  it  came  up  head.  He  seized  the  penny,  sur- 
prised at  his  own  success,  and  would  have  gone  instantly  to 
have  laid  it  out  in  nuts ;  but  the  stable-boy  stopped  him, 
and  tempted  him  to  throw  again.  This  time  he  lost ;  he 
threw  again  and  won  ;  and  so  he  went  on,  sometimes  losing, 
but  most  frequently  winning,  till  half  the  morning  was 
gone.  At  last,  however,  he  chanced  to  win  twice  running, 
and,  finding  himself  master  of  three  halfpence,  said  he 
would  play  no  more.  The  stable-boy,  grumbling,  swore  he 
would  have  his  revenge  another  time,  and  Lawrence  went 
and  bought  the  nuts.  "  It  is  a  good  thing,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, "to  play  at  pitch-farthing:  the  next  time  I  want  a 
half-penny,  I  '11  not  ask  my  father  for  it,  nor  go  to  work  nei- 
ther." Satisfied  with  this  resolution,  he  sat  down  to  crack 
his  nuts  at  his  leisure,  upon  the  horse-block  in  the  inn-yard. 
Here,  while  he  ate,  he  overheard  the  conversation  of  the 
stable-boys  and  postilions.  At  first,  their  shocking  oaths 
and  loud  wrangling  frightened  and  shocked  him  ;  for  Law- 
rence, though  a  lazy,  had  not  yet  learned  to  be  a  wicked, 
hoy.  But,  by  degrees,  he  was  accustomed  to  their  swearing 
ana  quarrelling,  and  took  a  delight  and  interest  in  their  dis- 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  25 

putcs  and  battles.  As  this  was  an  amusement  which  he 
could  enjoj  without  any  sort  of  exertion  on  his  part,  he  soon 
grew  so  fond  of  it,  that  every  day  he  returned  to  the  stable- 
yard,  and  the  horse-block  became  his  constant  seat.  Here 
he  found  some  relief  from  the  insupportable  fatigue  of  doing 
nothing :  and  here,  hour  after  hour,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  and  his  head  on  his  hands,  he  sat  the  spectator  of 
wickedness. 

Gaming,  cheating,  and  lying,  soon  became  familiar  to 
him ;  and  to  complete  his  ruin,  he  formed  a  sudden  and 
close  intimacy  with  the  stable-boy  with  whom  he  had  first 
begun  to  game  —  a  very  bad  boy.  The  consequences  of  this 
intimacy  we  shall  presently  see.  But  it  is  now  time  to  in- 
quire what  little  Jem  has  been  doing  all  this  while. 

One  day,  after  he  had  finished  his  task,  the  gardener 
asked  him  to  stay  a  little  while,  to  help  him  to  carry  some 
geranium  pots  into  the  hall.  Jem,  always  active  and 
obliging,  readily  staid  from  play,  and  was  carrying  a  heavy 
flower-pot,  when  his  mistress  crossed  the  hall.  "What  a 
terrible  litter,"  said  she,  "you  are  a-making  here — why 
do  n't  you  wipe  your  shoes  upon  the  mat  I"  Jem  turned 
round  to  look  for  the  mat,  but  he  saw  none.  "  Oh  !"  said 
the  lady,  recollecting  herself,  "  I  can't  blame  you,  for  there 
is  no  mat."  —  "  No,  ma'am,"  said  the  gardener,  "  nor  I  don't 
know  when,  if  ever,  the  man  will  bring  home  those  mats 
you  bespoke,  ma'am."  —  "lam  very  sorry  to  hear  that," 
said  the  lady.  "  I  wish  we  could  find  somebody  who 
would  do  them,  if  he  can't  —  1  should  not  care  what  sort 
of  mats  they  were,  so  that  one  could  wipe  one's  feet  on 
them."  Jem,  as  he  was  sweeping  away  the  litter,  when  he 
heard  these  last  words,  said  to  himself,  "  Perhaps  I  could 
make  a  mat."  And  all  the  way  home,  as  he  trudged  along 
whistling,  he  was  thinking  over  a  scheme  for  making  mats, 
which,  however  bold  it  may  appear,  he  did  not  despair  of 
executing,  with  patience  and  industry.  Many  were  the 
difficulties  which  his  "prophetic  eye"  foresaw,  but  he  felt 


26  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

within  himself  that  spirit  which  spurs  men  on  to  great 
enterprises,  and  makes  them  "  trample  on  impossibilities." 

He  recallected,  in  the  first  place,  that  he  had  seen  Lazy 
Lawrence,  while  he  lounged  upon  the  gate,  twist  a  bit  of 
heath  into  different  shapes  ;  and  he  thought  that  if  he  could 
find  some  way  of  platting  heath  firmly  together,  it  would 
make  a  very  pretty  green  soft  mat,  which  would  do  very 
well  for  one  to  wipe  one's  shoes  on.  About  a  mile  from  his 
mother's  house,  on  the  common  which  Jem  rode  over  when 
he  went  to  Farmer  Truck's  for  the  giant-strawberries,  he 
remembered  to  have  seen  a  great  quantity  of  this  heath ; 
and  as  it  was  now  only  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  he  knew 
that  he  should  have  time  to  feed  Lightfoot,  stroke  him,  go 
to  the  common,  return,  and  make  one  trial  of  his  skill  before 
he  went  to  bed. 

Lightfoot  carried  him  swiftly  to  the  common,  and  there 
Jem  gathered  as  much  of  the  heath  as  he  thought  he  should 
want.  But,  what  toil,  what  time,  what  pains  did  it  cost 
him,  before  he  could  make  anything  like  a  mat !  Twenty 
times  he  was  ready  to  throw  aside  the  heath,  and  give  up 
his  project,  from  impatience  of  repeated  disappointments. 
But  still  he  persevered.  Nothing  truly  great  can  be.  accom- 
plished without  toil  and  time.  Two  hours  he  worked  before 
he  went  to  bed.  All  his  play-hour3  the  next  day  he  spent 
at  his  mat ;  which,  in  all,  made  five  hours  of  fruitless  at- 
tempts. The  sixth  day,  however,  repaid  him  for  the  labours 
of  the  other  five ;  he  conquered  his  grand  difficulty  of  fast- 
ening the  heath  substantially  together,  and  at  length  com- 
pletely finished  a  mat,  which  far  surpassed  his  most  sanguine 
expectations.  He  was  extremely  happy  —  sung,  danced 
round  it  —  whistled  —  looked  at  it  again  and  again,  and 
could  hardly  leave  off  looking  at  when  it  was  time  to  go  to 
bed.  He  laid  it  by  his  bedside,  that  he  might  see  it  the 
moment  he  awoke  in  the  morning. 

And  now  came  the  grand  pleasure  of  carrying  ft  to  his 
mistress.    She  lc  oked  full  as  mucl  surprised  as  he  expected, 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  27 

when  she  saw  it,  and  when  she  heard  who  made  it.  After 
having  duly  admired  it,  she  asked  him  how  much  he  ex- 
pected for  his  mat.  "  Expect !  —  Nothing,  ma'am,"  said 
Jem  ;  "  I  meant  to  give  it  you  if  you  *d  have  it ;  I  did  not 
mean  to  sell  it.  I  made  it  at  my  play-hours,  and  I  was  very 
happy  making  it ;  and  I  'm  very  glad  too  that  you  like  it ; 
and  if  you  please  to  keep  it,  ma'am  —  that's  all."  —  "But 
that 's  not  all,"  said  the  lady.  "  Spend  your  time  no  more 
in  weeding  my  garden,  you  can  employ  yourself  much  bet- 
ter ;  you  shall  have  the  reward  of  your  ingenuity  as  well  as 
of  your  industry.  Make  as  many  more  such  mats  as  you 
can,  and  I  will  take  care  and  dispose  of  them  for  you."  — 
"  Thank  'e,  ma'am,"  said  Jem,  making  his  best  bow,  for  he 
thought  by  the  lady's  looks  she  meant  to  do  him  a  favour, 
though  he  repeated  to  himself,  "  Dispose  of  them ;  what 
does  that  mean  ?" 

The  next  day  he  went  to  work  to  make  more  mats,  and 
he  soon  learned  to  make  them  so  well  and  quickly,  that  he 
was  surprised  at  his  own  success.  In  every  one  he  made 
he  found  less  difficulty,  so  that  instead  of  making  two,  he  could 
soon  make  four  in  a  day.  In  a  fortnight  he  made  eighteen. 
It  was  Saturday  night  when  he  finished,  and  he  carried  in 
three  journeys  his  eighteen  mats  to  his  mistress's  house, 
piled  them  all  up  in  the  hall,  and  stood  with  his  hat  off,  with 
a  look  of  proud  humility  beside  the  pile,  waiting  for  his 
mistress's  appearance.  Presently  a  folding-door  at  one  end 
of  the  hall  opened,  and  he  saw  his  mistress  with  a  great 
many  gentlemen  and  ladies  rising  from  several  tables. 

"Oh!  there  is  my  little  boy  and  hi3  mats,"  cried  the 
lady ;  and,  followed  by  all  the  rest  of  the  company,  she  came 
into  the  hall.  Jem  modestly  retired  while  they  looked  at 
his  mats  ;  but  in  a  minute  or  two  his  mistress  beckoned  to 
him,  and  when  he  came  into  the  middle  of  the  circle,  he  saw 
that  his  pile  of  mats  had  disappeared.  "  Well,"  said  the 
lady,  smiling,  "  what  do  you  see  that  makes  you  look  so  sur- 
prised ?"  —  "  That  all  my  mats  are  gone,"  said  Jem ;  "  but 


28  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

you  are  very  welcome."  —  "  Are  we  1".  said  the  lady :  "  well, 
take  up  your  hat  and  go  home  then,  for  you  see  that  it  is 
getting  late,  and  you  know  \  Lightfoot  will  wonder  what 's 
become  of  you/ "  Jem  turned  round  to  take  up  his  hat 
which  he  had  left  on  the  floor. 

But  how  his  countenance  changed !  —  the  hat  was  heavy 
with  shillings.  Every  one  who  had  taken  a  mat  had  put  in 
two  shillings ;  so  that  for  the  eighteen  mats  he  had  got 
thirty-six  shillings.  "  Thirty-six  shillings  !"  said  the  lady  j 
"  five  and  sevenpence  I  think  you  told  me  you  had  earned 
already  —  how  much  does  that  make  ?  I  must  add,  I  be* 
lieve,  one  other  sixpence  to  make  out  your  two  guineas." 
—  "  Two  guineas  I"  exclaimed  Jem,  now  quite  conquering 
his  bashfulness,  for  at  the  moment  he  forgot  where  he  was, 
and  saw  nobody  that  was  by :  "  two  guineas !"  cried  he, 
clapping  his  hands  together  —  "Oh  Lightfoot!  —  oh  mo- 
ther \"  Then  recollecting  himself,  he  saw  his  mistress, 
whom  he  now  looked  up  to  quite  as  a  friend.  "  Will  you 
thank  them  all  t"  said  he,  scarcely  daring  to  glance  his  eye 
round  upon  the  company ;  "  will  you  thank  'em,  for  you 
know  I  do  n't  know  how  to  thank  'em  rightly  ?"  Everybody 
thought,  however,  that  they  had  been  thanked  rightly. 

"  Now  we  won't  keep  you  any  longer  —  only,"  said  his 
mistiess,  "  I  have  one  thing  to  ask  you,  that  I  may  be  by 
when  you  show  your  treasure  to  your  mother."  —  "  Come, 
then,"  said  Jem,  "come  with  me  now."  —  "Not  now,"  said 
the  lady,  laughing,  "  but  I  will  come  to  Ashton  to-morrow 
evening ;  perhaps  your  mother  can  find  me  a  few  strawber* 
ries." 

"  That  she  will,"  said  Jem  ;  "  I  '11  search  the  garden  my- 
self." He  now  went  home,  but  felt  it  a  great  restraint  to 
wait  till  to-morrow  evening  befoie  he  told  his  mother.  To 
console  himself  he  flew  to  the  stable ;  "  Lightfoot,  you  're 
not  to  be  sold  to-morrow !  poor  fellow,"  said  he,  patting 
him,  and  then  could  not  refrain  from  counting  out  his  mo- 
ney.    While  he  was  intent  upon  this,  Jem  was  sta  rtled  by 


LAZY     LAURENCE.  29 

a  noise  at  the  door ;  somebody  was  trying  to  pull  up  the 
latch.  It  opened,  and  there  came  in  Lazy  Lawrence,  with 
a  boy  in  a  red  jacket,  who  had  a  cock  under  his  arm.  They 
started  when  they  got  into  the  middle  of  the  stable,  and 
when  they  saw  Jem,  who  had  been  at  first  hidden  by  the 
horse. 

"  We — we — we  came,"  stammered  Lazy  Lawrence,  "  I 
mean,  I  came  to — to — to  "  —  "  To  ask  you,"  continued  the 
stable-boy  in  a  bold  tone,  "  whether  you  will  go  with  us  to 
the  cock-fight  on  Monday  ?  See,  I  've  a  fine  cock  here,  and 
Lawrence  told  me  you  were  a  great  friend  of  his,  so  I  came." 

Lawrence  now  attempted  to  say  something  in  praise  of 
the  pleasures  of  cock-fighting,  and  in  recommendation  of 
his  new  companion.  But  Jem  looked  at  the  stable-boy  with 
dislike,  and  a  sort  of  dread ;  then  turning  his  eyes  upon  the 
cock  with  a  look  of  compassion,  said  in  a  low  voice  to  Law- 
rence, "  Shall  you  like  to  stand  by  and  see  its  eyes  picked 
out  ?"  —  "  I  do  n't  know,"  said  Lawrence,  "  as  to  that ;  but 
they  say  a  cock-fight's  a  fine  sight,  and  it's  no  more  cruel 
in  me  to  go  than  another ;  and  a  great  many  go  ;  and  I  've 
nothing  else  to  do,  so  I  shall  go."  —  "  But  I  've  something 
else  to  do,"  said  Jem,  laughing,  "sol  shall  not  go."  — 
"But,"  continued  Lawrence,  "you  know  Monday  is  the 
great  Bristol  fair,  and  one  must  be  merry  then,  of  all  days 
in  the  year."  —  "  One  day  in  the  year,  sure  there  's  no  harm 
in  being  merry,"  said  the  stable-boy.  "I  hope  not,"  said 
Jem  ;  "  for  I  know,  for  my  part,  I  am  merry  every  day  in 
the  year."  —  "That's  very  odd,"  said  Lawrence;  "but  I 
know,  for  my  part,  I  would  not  for  all  the  world  miss  going 
to  the  fair,  for  at  least  it  will  be  something  to  talk  of  for 
half  a  year  after :  come  ;  you  '11  go,  won't  you  ?"  —  "  No," 
said  Jem,  still  looking  as  if  he  did  not  like  to  talk  before  the 
ill-looking  stranger.  "  Then  what  will  you  do  with  all  your 
money  ?"  —  "  I  '11  tell  you  about  that  another  time,"  whis- 
pered Jem ;  :<  and  do  n't  you  go  to  see  that  cock's  eyes  pecked 
out ;  it  won't  make  you  merry,  I  'm  sure."  —  "  If  I  had  any- 


30  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

thing  else  to  divert  mi — "  said  Lawrence,  hesitating  and 
yawning.  "  Come,"  cried  the  stable-boy,  seizing  his  stretch- 
ing arm,  "  come  along,"  cried  he ;  and,  pulling  him  away 
from  Jem,  upon  whom  he  cast  a  look  of  extreme  contempt ; 
"  leave  him  alone,  he 's  not  the  sort.  What  a  fool  you  are/'* 
said  he  to  Lawrence,  the  moment  he  got  him  out  of  the  sta- 
ble, "  you  might  have  known  he  would  not  go,  else  we  should 
soon  have  trimmed  him  out  of  his  four  and  sevenpence. 
But  how  came  you  to  talk  of  four  and  sevenpence  ?  I  saw 
in  the  manger  a  hat  full  of  silver."  —  "  Indeed !"  exclaimed 
Lawrence.  "  Yes,  indeed ;  but  why  did  you  stammer  so 
when  we  first  got  in  ?  you  had  like  to  have  blown  us  all  up." 
—  "I  was  so  ashamed,"  said  Lawrence,  hanging  down  his 
head.  "  Ashamed !  but  you  must  not  talk  of  shame  no\5 
you  're  in  for  it ;  and  I  shan't  let  you  off.  You  owe  us  half 
a  crown,  recollect,  and  I  must  be  paid  to-night ;  so  see  and 
get  the  money  somehow  or  other."  After  a  considerable 
pause,  he  added,  "  I  '11  answer  for  it  he  'd  never  miss  half  a 
crown  out  of  all  that  silver."  —  "  But  to  steal,"  said  Law- 
rence, drawing  back  with  horror,  "  I  never  thought  I  should 
come  to  that !  and  from  poor  Jem,  too  —  the  money  that  he 
has  worked  so  hard  for,  too  !"  —  "  But  it  is  not  stealing :  we 
do  n't  mean  to  steal  —  only  to  borrow  it ;  and  if  we  win,  as 
we  certainly  shall,  at  the  cock-fight,  pay  it  back  again,  and 
he  '11  never  know  anything  of  the  matter ;  and  what  harm 
will  it  do  him  ?  Besides,  what  signifies  talking  ?  you  can't 
go  to  the  cock-fight,  or  the  fair  either,  if  you  do  n't ;  and  I 
tell  ye,  we  do  n't  mean  to  steal  it ;  we  '11  pay  it  again  on 
Monday  night."  Lawrence  made  no  reply,  and  they  parted 
without  his  coming  to  any  determination. 

Here  let  us  pause  in  our  story  —  we  are  almost  afraid  to 
go  on  —  the  rest  is  very  shocking  —  our  little  readers  will 
shudder  as  they  read.  But  it  is  better  that  they  should 
know  the  truth,  and  see  what  the  idle  boy  came  to  at  last. 

In  the  dead  of  the  night  Lawrence  heard  somebody  tap 
at  the  window.     He  knew  well  who  it  was,  for  this  was  the 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  3] 

signal  agreed  upon  between  him  and  his  wicked  companion. 
He  trembled  at  the  thoughts  of  what  he  was  about  to  do, 
and  lay  quite  still,  with  his  head  under  the  bed-clothes,  till 
he  heard  the  second  tap.  Then  he  got  up,  dressed  himself, 
and  opened  the  window.  It  was  almost  even  with  the 
ground.  His  companion  said  to  him,  in  a  hollow  voice, 
"  Are  you  ready  ?"  He  made  no  answer,  but  got  out  of  the 
window  and  followed.  When  he  got  to  the  stable,  a  black 
cloud  was  just  passing  over  the  moon,  and  it  was  quite  dark. 
'Where  are  you?"  whispered  Lawrence,  groping  about, 
"wh  ~a.  are  you?  Speak  to  me."  —  "I  am  here:  give  me 
your  h-cv  I."  Lawrence  stretched  out  hi?  hand.  "  Is  that 
your  hand  ?"  said  the  wicked  boy,  as  Lax.  rence  laid  hold  of 
him  ;  "  how  cold  it  felt !"  —  "  Let  us  go  back,"  said  Law- 
rence ;  "it  is  time  yet."  —  "It  is  no  time  to  go  back,"  re- 
plied the  other,  opening  the  door  "you've  gone  too  far 
now  to  go  back ;"  and  he  pushed  L  .wrence  into  the  stable. 
"  Have  you  found  it  ?  take  care  of  the  horse  —  have  you 
done  ?  —  what  are  you  about  ?  —  make  haste,  I  hear  a  noise," 
said  the  stable-boy,  who  watc?  tA  at  the  door.  "  I  am  feel- 
ing for  the  half-crown,  but  I  can't  find  it."  —  "Bring  all 
together."  He  brought  Jem's  broken  flower-pot,  with  all 
the  money  in  it,  to  the  door. 

The  black  cloud  was  now  passed  over  the  moon,  and  the 
light  shone  full  upon  them.  "  What  do  we  stand  here  for  ?" 
said  the  stable-boy,  cnatching  the  flower-pot  out  of  Law- 
rence's treml  ling  hands,  and  pulled  him  away  from  the 
door.  "  Surely,"  cried  Lawrence,  "  you  won't  take  all ! 
You  said  you  'd  <  .nly  take  half  a  crown,  and  pay  it  back  on 
Monday  —  you.  said  you'd  only  take  half  a  crown!"  — 
"  Hold  your  t  jngue !"  replied  the  otner,  walking  on,  deaf  to 
all  remonstrances  —  "If  I  am  to  be  hanged  ever,  it  shall 
not  be  fc  half  a  crown."  Lawrence's  blood  ran  cold  in  his 
veins,  a  «d  he  felt  as  if  all  his  hair  stood  on  end.  Not  ano- 
ther word  passed.  His  accomplice  carried  off  the  money, 
and  Lawrence  crept,  with  all  the  horrors  of  guilt  upon  him, 


32  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

to  his  restless  bed.  All  night  he  was  starting  from  frightful 
dreams ;  or  else,  broad  awake,  he  lay  listening  to  every 
small  noise,  unable  to  stir,  and  scarcely  daring  to  breathe, 
tormented  by  that  most  dreadful  of  all  kinds  of  fear,  that 
fear  which  is  the  constant  companion  of  an  evil  conscience. 
He  thought  the  morning  would  never  come ;  but  when  it 
was  day,  when  he  heard  the  birds  sing,  and  saw  everything 
looked  cheerful  as  usual,  he  felt  still  more  miserable.  It 
was  Sunday  morning,  and  the  bell  rang  for  church.  All 
the  children  of  the  village,  dressed  in  their  Sunday  clothes, 
innocent  and  gay,  and  little  Jem,  the  best  and  gayest  p,mong 
them,  went  flocking  by  his  door  to  church.  "  Well,  Law- 
rence," said  Jem,  pulling  his  coat  as  he  passed,  and  saw 
Lawrence  leaning  against  his  father's  door,  "  what  makes 
you  look  so  black  V  —  "I  !"  said  Lawrence,  starting,  "  why 
do  you  say  that  I  look  black?"  —  "Nay,  then,"  said  Jem, 
"  you  look  white  enough  now,  if  that  will  please  you ;  for 
you  're  turned  as  pale  as  death."  "  Pale !"  replied  Law- 
rence, not  knowing  what  he  said,  and  turned  abruptly  away, 
for  he  dared  not  stand  another  look  of  Jem's ;  conscious 
that  guilt  was  written  in  his  face,  he  shunned  every  eye. 
He  would  now  have  given  the  world  to  have  thrown  off  the 
load  of  guilt  which  lay  upon  his  mind ;  he  longed  to  follow 
Jem,  to  fall  upon  his  knees,  and  confess  all :  dreading  the 
moment  when  Jem  should  discover  his  loss,  Lawrence  dared 
not  stay  at  home  ;  and  not  knowing  what  to  do,  or  where  to 
go,  he  mechanically  went  to  his  old  haunt  at  the  stable-yard, 
and  lurked  thereabouts  all  day,  with  his  accomplice,  who 
tried  in  vain  to  quiet  his  fears  and  raise  his  spirits,  by  talk 
ing  of  the  next  day's  cock-fight.  It  was  agreed,  that  as  soon 
as  the  dusk  of  the  evening  came  on,  they  should  go  togethei 
into  a  certain  lonely  field,  and  there  divide  the  booty. 

In  the  mean  time,  Jem,  when  he  returned  from  church, 
was  very  full  of  business,  preparing  for  the  reception  of  his 
mistress,  of  whose  intended  visit  he  had  informed  his  mo- 
ther ;  and  while  she  was  arranging  the  kitchen  and  their 


LAZr     LAWRENCE.  33 

little  parlour,  he  ran  to  search  the  strawberry  beds.  "  "Why, 
my  Jem,  how  merry  you  are  to-day  I"  said  his  mother,  when 
he  came  in  with  the  strawberries,  and  was  jumping  about 
the  room  playfully.  "  Now  keep  those  spirits  of  yours,  Jem, 
till  you  want  'em,  and  do  n't  let  it  come  upon  you  all  at 
once.  Have  it  in  mind  that  to-morrow's  fair-day ;  and 
Lightfoot  must  go.  I  bid  Farmer  Truck  to  call  for  him  to- 
night ;  he  said  he  'd  take  him  along  with  his  own,  and  he  '11 
be  here  just  now  —  and  then  I  know  how  it  will  be  with  you, 
Jem  \"  —  "  So  do  1 !"  cried  Jem,  swallowing  his  secret  with 
great  difficulty,  and  then  tumbling  head  over  heels  four 
times  running.  A  carriage  passed  the  window  and  stopped 
at  the  door.  Jem  ran  out ;  it  was  his  mistress.  She  came 
in  smiling,  and  soon  made  the  old  woman  smile  too,  by 
praising  the  neatness  of  everything  in  the  house.  But  we 
shall  pass  over,  however  important  they  were  deemed  at  the 
time,  the  praises  of  the  strawberries,  and  of  "  my  grandmo- 
ther's china  plate."  Another  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 
"  Run,  Jem,"  said  his  mother,  "  I  hope  it's  our  milk-woman 
with  cream  for  the  lady."  No :  it  was  Farmer  Truck  come 
for  Lightfoot.  The  old  woman's  countenance  fell.  "  Fetch 
him  out,  dear,"  said  she,  turning  to  her  son ;  but  Jem  was 
gone  ;  he  flew  out  to  the  stable  the  moment  he  saw  the  flap 
of  Farmer  Truck's  great-coat.  "  Sit  ye  down,  farmer,"  said 
the  old  woman,  after  they  had  waited  about  five  minutes  in 
expectation  of  Jem's  return.  "  You  'd  best  sit  down,  if  the 
lady  will  give  you  leave  ;  for  he  '11  not  hurry  himself  back 
again.  My  boy 's  a  fool,  madam,  about  that  there  horse." 
Trying  to  laugh,  she  added,  "  I  knew  how  Lightfoot  and  he 
would  be  loath  enough  to  part  —  he  won't  bring  him  out  till 
the  last  minute  ;  so  do  sit  ye  down,  neighbour."  The  farmer 
had  scarcely  sat  down,  when  Jem,  with  a  pale  wild  counte- 
nance, came  back.  "  What 's  the  matter  ?"  said  his  mistress. 
'■'  God  bless  the  boy !"  said  his  mother,  looking  at  him  quite 
frightened,  while  he  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not.  She  went 
up  to  him,  and  then  leaning  his  head  against  her,  he  cried, 
6 


34  LAZY    LAWRENCE. 

"  It 's  gone !  —  It 's  all  gone  !"  and  bursting  into  tears,  he 
sobbed  as  if  his  little  heart  would  break.  "What's  gone, 
love?"  said  his  mother.  "My  two  guineas  —  Lightfoot'a 
two  guineas.  I  went  to  fetch  'em  to  give  you,  mammy !  but 
the  broken  flower-pot  that  I  put  them  in,  and  all 's  gone  !  — 
quite  gone  !"  repeated  he,  checking  his  sobs.  "  I  saw  them 
safe  last  night,  and  was  showing  'em  to  Lightfoot ;  and  1 
was  so  glad  to  think  I  had  earned  them  all  myself;  and  I 
thought  how  surprised  you  'd  look,  and  how  glad  you  'd  be, 
and  how  you  'd  kiss  me,  and  all  !" 

His  mother  listened  to  him  with  the  greatest  surprise, 
while  his  mistress  stood  in  silence,  looking  first  at  the  old 
woman,  and  then  at  Jem,  with  a  penetrating  eye,  as  if  she 
suspected  the  truth  of  his  story,  and  was  afraid  of  becom- 
ing the  dupe  of  her  own  compassion.  "  This  is  a  very 
strange  thing !"  said  she,  gravely.  "  How  came  you  to 
leave  all  your  money  in  a  broken  flower-pot  in  the  stable  ? 
How  came  you  not  to  give  it  to  your  mother  to  take  care 
of"?"  —  "  Why,  do  n't  you  remember,"  said  Jem,  looking  up 
in  the  midst  of  his  tears  ;  "  why,  do  n't  you  remember  you 
your  own  self  bid  me  not  to  tell  her  about  it  till  you  were 
by  ?"  —  "  And  did  you  not  tell  her  ?"  —  "  Nay,  ask  mammy," 
said  Jem,  a  little  offended ;  and  when  afterward  the  lady 
went  on  questioning  him  in  a  severe  manner,  as  if  she  did 
not  believe  him,  he  at  last  made  no  answer.  "  Oh,  Jem, 
Jem  !  why  do  n't  you  speak  to  the  lady  ?"  said  his  mother. 
"  I  have  spoke,  and  spoke  the  truth,"  said  Jem  proudly, 
"  and  she  did  not  believe  me." 

Still  the  lady,  who  had  lived  too  long  in  the  world  to  be 
without  suspicion,  maintained  a  cold  manner  and  deter- 
mined to  wait  the  event  without  interfering,  saying  only 
that  she  hoped  the  money  would  be  found ;  and  advised  Jem 
to  have  done  crying.  "  I  have  done,"  said  Jem  ;  "  I  shall 
cry  no  more  "  And  as  he  had  the  greatest  command  over 
himself,  he  actually  did  not  shed  another  tear,  not  even 
when  the  farmer  got  up  to  go,  saying  he  could  wait  no 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  35 

longer.  Jem  silently  went  to  bring  out  Lightfoot.  The 
lady  now  took  her  seat  where  she  could  see  all  that  passed 
at.  the  onen  parlour  window.  The  old  woman  stood  at  the 
door,  and  several  idle  people  of  the  village,  who  had  gath- 
ered round  the  lady's  carriage  examining  it,  turned  about 
to  listen.  In  a  minute  or  two  Jem  appeared,  with  a  steady 
countenance,  leading  Lightfoot ;  and,  when  he  came  up, 
without  saying  a  word  put  the  bridle  into  Farmer  Truck's 
hand.  "  He  has  been  a  good  horse,"  said  the  farmer.  "  He 
is  a  good  horse  !"  cried  Jem,  and  threw  his  arm  over  Light- 
foot's  neck,  hiding  his  own  face  as  he  leaned  upon  him. 

At  this  instant  a  party  of  milk-women  went  by ;  and  one 
of  them,  having  set  down  her  pail,  came  behind  Jem,  and 
gave  him  a  pretty  smart  blow  on  the  back.  He  looked  up. 
"And  don't  you  know  me?"  said  she.  "I  forget,"  said 
Jem  ;  "  1  think  I  have  seen  your  face  before,  but  I  forget." 
—  "  Do  you  so  ?  and  you  '11  tell  me  just  now,"  said  she,  half- 
opening  her  hand,  "  that  you  forgot  who  gave  you  this,  and 
who  charged  you  not  to  part  with  it  too."  Here  she  quite 
opened  her  large  hand,  and  on  the  palm  of  it  appeared 
Jem's  silver  penny.  "  Where,"  exclaimed  Jem,  seizing  it, 
"  oh  where  did  you  find  it  ?  and  have  you  —  oh  tell  me,  have 
you  got  the  rest  of  my  money  ?"  —  "I  do  n't  know  nothing 
of  your  money  —  I  do  n't  know  what  you  would  be  at,"  said 
the  milk-woman.  "  But  where,  pray  tell  me,  where  did  you 
find  this  ?"  —  "  With  them  that  you  gave  it  to,  I  suppose," 
said  the  miik-woman,  turning  away  suddenly  to  take  up  her 
milk-pail.  But  now  Jem's  mistress  called  to  her  through 
the  window,  begging  her  to  stop,  and  joining  in  his  entrea- 
ties to  know  how  she  came  by  the  silver  penny. 

"  Why,  ma'am,"  said  she,  taking  up  the  corner  of  her 
apron,  i0I  came  by  it  in  an  odd  way,  too.  You  must  know 
my  Betty  is  sick,  so  I  come  with  the  milk  myself,  though 
it 's  not  what  I  'm  used  to  ;  for  my  Betty  —  you  know  my 
Betty,"  said  she,  turning  round  to  the  old  woman,  "  my 
Betty  serves  you,  and  she's  a  tight   and  stirring  lassie. 


36  LAZY    LAWRENCE. 

ma'am,  I  can  assure — "  "  Yes,  I  do  n't  doubt  it,"  said  the 
lady,  impatiently ;  "  but  about  the  silver  penny  ?"  —  "  Why, 
that 's  true ;  as  I  was  coming  along  all  alone,  for  the  rest 
came  around,  and  I  came  a  short  cut  across  the  field  —  no, 
you  can't  see  it,  madam,  where  you  stand  —  but  if  you  were 
here — "  "I  see  it  —  I  know  it,"  said  Jem,  out  of  breath 
with  anxiety.  "Well  —  well  —  I  rested  my  pail  upon  the 
stile,  and  sets  me  down  a  while,  and  there  comes  out  of  tiie 
hedge  —  I  do  n't  know  well  how,  for  they  startled  me  so  I  'd 
like  to  have  thrown  down  my  milk  —  two  boys,  one  about 
the  size  of  he,"  said  she,  pointing  to  Jem,  "  and  one  a  mat- 
ter taller,  but  ill-looking  like ;  so  I  did  not  think  to  stir  to 
make  way  for  them,  and  they  were  in  a  desperate  hurry ; 
so,  without  waiting  for  the  stile,  one  of  'em  pulled  at  the 
gate,  and  when  it  would  not  open  (for  it  was  tied  with  a 
pretty  stout  cord),  one  of  'em  whips  out  with  his  knife  and 
cuts  it  — 

'•  Now  have  you  a  knife  about  you,  sir  ?"  continued  the 
milk-woman  to  the  farmer.     He  gave  her  his  knife. 

*'  Here  now,  ma'am,  just  sticking  as  it  were  here,  between 
the  blade  and  the  haft,  was  the  silver  penny.  He  took  no 
notice,  but  when  he  opened  it,  out  it  falls ;  still  he  takes  no 
heed,  but  cuts  the  cord  as  I  said  before,  and  through  the 
gate  they  went,  and  out  of  sight  in  half  a  minute.  I  picks 
up  the  penny,  for  my  heart  misgave  me  that  it  was  the  very 
one  husband  had  had  a  long  time,  and  had  given  against 
my  voice  to  he,"  pointing  to  Jem  ;  "  and  I  charged  him  not 
to  part  with  it ;  and,  ma'am,  when  I  looked,  I  knew  it  by 
the  mark ;  so  I  thought  I  should  show  it  to  lie"  again  point- 
ing to  Jem,  "  and  let  him  gi  ve  it  back  to  those  it  belongs  to." 
— "  It  belongs  to  me,"  said  Jem ;  "  I  never  gave  it  to  anybody 
— but — "  "  But,"  cried  the  farmer,  "  those  boys  have  robbed 
him  —  it  is  they  who  have  all  his  money."  —  "Oh,  which 
way  did  they  go  ?"  cried  Jem  ;  "  I  '11  run  after  them." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  lady,  calling  to  her  servant ;  and  she 
desired  him  to  take  his  horse  and  ride  after  them.     "  Ay/' 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  61 

added  Farmer  Truck,  "  do  you  take  the  road,  and  J  '11  taka 
the  field  way,  and  I;ll  be  bound  we'll  have  'em  presently." 

While  they  were  gone  in  pursuit  of  the  thieves,  the  lady, 
who  was  now  thoroughly  convinced  of  Jem's  truth,  desired 
her  coachman  would  produce  what  she  had  ordered  him  to 
bring  with  him  that  evening.  Out  of  the  boot  of  the  car- 
riage the  coachman  immediately  produced  a  new  saddle  and 
bridle. 

How  Jem's  eyes  sparkled  when  the  saddle  was  thrown 
upon  Lightfoot's  back !  "  Put  it  on  your  horse  yourself, 
Jem,"  said  the  lady  ;  "  it  is  yours." 

Confused  reports  of  Lightfoot's  splendid  accoutrements,  of 
the  pursuit  of  the  thieves,  and  of  the  fine  and  generous  lady 
who  was  standing  at  Dame  Preston's  window,  quickly  spread 
through  the  village,  and  drew  everybody  from  their  houses. 
They  crowded  round  Jem  to  hear  the  story.  The  children 
especially,  who  were  all  fond  of  him,  expressed  the  strongest 
indignation  against  the  thieves.  Every  eye  was  on  the 
stretch ;  and  now  some,  who  had  run  down  the  lane,  came 
back  shouting,  "Here  they  are  !  they've  got  the  thieves  !" 

The  footman  on  horseback  carried  one  boy  before  him ; 
and  the  farmer,  striding  along,  dragged  another.  The  latter 
had  on  a  red  jacket,  which  little  Jem  immediately  recol- 
lected,- and  scarcely  dared  lift  his  eyes  to  look  at  the  boy  on 
horseback.  "Astonishing!"  said  he  to  himself ;  ''it  must 
be  —  yet  surely  it  can't  be  Lawrence  !"  The  footman  rode 
as  fast  as  the  people  would  let  him.  The  boy's  hat  was 
slouched,  and  his  head  hung  down,  so  that  nobody  could  see 
his  face. 

At  this  instant  there  was  a  disturbance  in  the  crowd.  A 
man  who  was  half-drunk  pushed  his  way  forward,  swearing 
that  nobody  should  stop  him ;  that  he  had  a  right  to  see, 
and  he  would  see.  And  so  he  did ;  for,  forcing  through  all 
resistance,  he  staggered  up  to  the  footman  just  as  he  was 
lifting  down  the  boy  he  had  carried  before  him.  "  I  wile— 
I  toll  you,  I  will  see  the  thief!"  cried  the  drunken  man. 


38  LAZY     LAWRENCE. 

pushing  up  the  boy's  hat.  It  was  his  own  son.  "  Law- 
rence 1"  exclaimed  the  wretched  father.  The  shock  sobered 
him  at  once,  and  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

There  was  an  awful  silence.  Lawrence  fell  on  his  knees, 
and,  in  a  voice  that  could  scarcely  be  heard,  made  a  full 
confession  of  all  the  circumstances  of  his  guilt.  "  Such  a 
young  creature  so  wicked !  What  could  put .  such  wicked- 
ness into  your  head  ?"  —  "  Bad  company,"  said  Lawrence. 
"  And  how  came  you  —  what  brought  you  into  bad  compa- 
ny ?" —  "I  do  n't  know  —  except  it  was  idleness."  While 
this  was  saying,  the  farmer  was  emptying  Lazy  Lawrence's 
pockets ;  and  when  the  money  appeared,  all  his  former 
companions  in  the  village  looked  at  each  other  with  aston 
ishment  and  terror.  The  parents  grasped  their  little  hands 
closer,  and  cried,  "  Thanks  to  Heaven !  he  is  not  my  son  — 
how  often,  when  he  was  little,  we  used,  as  he  lounged  about, 
to  tell  him  that  idleness  was  the  root  of  all  evil !" 

As  for  the  hardened  wretch  his  accomplice,  every  one  was 
impatient  to  have  him  sent  to  jail.  He  had  put  on  a  bold 
insolent  countenance  till  he  heard  Lawrence's  confession, 
till  the  money  was  found  upon  him,  and  he  heard  the  milk- 
woman  declare  that  she  would  swear  to  the  silver  penny 
which  he  had  dropped.  Then  he  turned  pale,  and  betrayed 
the  strongest  signs  of  fear.  "  We  must  take  him  before  the 
justice,"  said  the  farmer,  "  and  he  '11  be  lodged  in  Bristol 
jail."  —  "Oh!"  said  Jem,  springing  forward  when  Law- 
rence's hands  were  going  to  be  tied,  "  let  him  go  —  won't 
you  —  can't  you  let  him  go  ?"  —  "  Yes,  madam,  for  mercy's 
sake,"  said  .Tern's  mother  to  the  lady,  "think  what  a  dis- 
grace to  his  family  to  be  sent  to  jail !"  His  father  stood  by 
wringing  his  hands  in  an  agony  of  despair.  "  It 's  all  my 
fault,"  cried  he  ;  "I  brought  him  up  in  idleness."  —  " But 
he  '11  never  be  idle  any  more,"  said  Jem  ;  "  won't  you  speak 
for  him,  ma'am  ?"  —  "  Don't  ask  the  lady  to  speak  for  him," 
said  the  farmer ;  "it's  better  he  should  go  to  bridewell  now, 
than  to  the  gallows  by-and-by." 


LAWRENCE  FELL   ON    HIS    KNEES. 


LAZY     LAWRENCE.  39 

Nothing  more  was  said,  for  everybody  felt  the  truth  of 
the  farmer's  speech.  Lawrence  was  sent  to  bridewell  for  a 
month,  and  the  stable-boy  was  transported  to  Botany  Bay. 

During  Lawrence's  confinement,  Jem  often  visited  him, 
and  carried  him  such  little  presents  as  he  could  afford  to 
give ;  and  Jem  could  afford  to  be  generous,  because  he  was 
industrious.  Lawrence's  heart  was  touched  by  his  kindness, 
and  his  example  struck  him  so  forcibly,  that  when  his  con- 
finement was  ended  he  resolved  to  set  immediately  to  work ; 
and,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  who  knew  him*  soon  became 
remarkable  for  industry ;  he  was  found  early  and  late  at  his 
work,  established  a  new  character,  and  for  ever  Io3t  the 
name  of  Lazy  Lawrence. 


TARLTON 


Young  Hardy  was  educated  by  Mr.  Freeman,  a  very  good 

master,  at  one  of  the  Sunday-schools  in shire.     He  was 

honest,  obedient,  active,  and  good-natured ;  so  that  he  was 
esteemed  and  beloved  by  his  master,  and  by  his  companions. 
Beloved  by  all  his  companions  who  were  good,  he  did  not 
desire  to  be  loved  by  the  bad ;  nor  was  he  at  all  vexed  or 
ashamed  when  idle,  mischievous,  or  dishonest  boys  at- 
tempted to  plague  or  ridicule  him.  His  friend  Loveit,  on 
the  contrary,  wished  to  be  universally  liked ;  and  his  highest 
ambition  was  to  be  thought  the  best-natured  boy  in  the 
school :  —  and  so  he  was.  He  usually  went  by  the  name  of 
poor  Loveit,  and  everybody  pitied  him  when  he  got  into  dis 
grace,  which  he  frequently  did ;  for  though  he  had  a  good 
disposition,  he  was  often  led  to  do  things  which  he  knew  to 
be  wrong,  merely  because  he  could  never  have  the  courage 
to  say  no ;  because  he  was  afraid  to  offend  the  ill-natured, 
and  could  not  bear  to  be  laughed  at  by  fools. 

One  fine  autumn  evening,  all  the  boys  were  permitted  to 
go  out  to  play  in  a  pleasant  green  meadow  near  the  school. 
Loveit,  and  another  boy  called  Tarlton,  began  to  play  a 
game  at  battledore  and  shuttlecock,  and  a  large  party  stood 
by  to  look  on,  for  they  were  the  best  players  at  battledore 
and  shuttlecock  in  the  school,  and  this  was  a  trial  of  skill 
between  them.  When  they  had  kept  it  up  to  three  hundred 
and  twenty,  the  game  became  very  interesting :  the  arms 
of  the  combatants  grew  so  tired  that  they  (sould  scarcely 

(40) 


TARLTON.  41 

wield  the  battledores  :  —  the  shuttlecock  began  to  wave  in 
the  air ;  now  it  almost  touched  the  ground  ;  and  now,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  spectators,  mounted  again  high  over 
their  heads ;  yet  the  strokes  became  feebler  and  feebler ; 
and,  "  Now  Loveit  \"  —  "  Now  Tarlton  !"  resounded  on  ali 
sides.  For  another  minute  the  victory  was  doubtful ;  but 
at  length  the  setting  sun  shining  full  in  Loveit's  face  so 
dazzled  his  eyes  that  he  could  no  longer  see  the  shuttlecock, 
and  it  fell  at  his  feet. 

After  the  first  shout  for  Tarlton's  triumph  was  over,  every- 
body exclaimed,  "  Poor  Loveit  V  —  "  He 's  the  best-natured 
fellow  in  the  world !"  —  "  What  a  pity  that  he  did  not  stand 
with  his  back  to  the  sun." 

"  Now  I  dare  you  all  to  play  another  game  with  me," 
cried  Tarlton,  vauntingly ;  and  as  he  spoke,  he  tossed  the 
shuttlecock  up  with  all  his  force ;  with  so  much  force  that 
it  went  over  the  hedge,  and  dropped  into  a  lane  which  went 
close  behind  the  field.  "Heydey!"  said  Tarlton,  "what 
shall  we  do  now  ?" 

The  boys  were  strictly  forbidden  to  go  into  the  lane  ;  and 
it  was  upon  their  promise  not  to  break  this  command  that 
they  were  allowed  to  play  in  the  adjoining  field. 

No  other  shuttlecock  was  to  be  had,  and  their  play  was 
stopped.  They  stood  on  the  top  of  the  bank  peeping  over 
the  hedge.  "  I  see  it  yonder,"  said  Tarlton  ;  "  I  wish  any- 
body would  get  it.  One  could  get  over  the  gate  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  field,  and  be  back  again  in  half  a  minute,"  added 
he,  looking  at  Loveit.  "  But  you  know  we  must  not  go  into 
the  lane,"  said  Loveit,  hesitatingly.  "  Pugh  !"  said  Tarl- 
ton, "  why  now  what  harm  could  it  do  ?"  —  "I  do  n't  know," 
said  Loveit,  drumming  upon  his  battledore  ;  "  but — "  "  You 
do  n't  know,  man !  why,  then,  what  are  you  afraid  of,  I  ask 
you?"  Loveit  coloured,  went  on  drumming,  and  again,  in 
a  lower  voice,  said,  "  Tie  did  n't  know  J"  But  upon  Tarlton's 
repeating,  in  a  more  insolent  tone,  "  I  ask  you,  man,  what 
you're   afraid  of?"   he   suddenly  left  off  drumming,  and 


42  TARLTON. 

looking  round,  said,  "  he  was  not  afraid  of  anything  that 
he  knew  of."  —  "Yes,  but  you  are,"  said  Hardy,  coming 
forward.  "Am  I?"  said  Loveit;  "of  what,  pray,  am  I 
afraid  ?"  —  "  Of  doing  wrong !"  —  "  Afraid  of  doing  urrong  !" 
repeated  Tarlton,  mimicking  him,  so  that  he  made  everybody 
laugh.  "  Now  had  n't  you  better  say,  afraid  of  being 
flogged?"  —  "No."  said  Hardy,  coolly,  after  the  laugh  had 
somewhat  subsided ;  "I  am  as  little  afraid  of  being  flogged 
as  you  are,  Tarlton ;  but  I  meant — "  "  No  matter  what  you 
meant ;  why  should  you  interfere  with  your  wisdom  and 
your  meanings  ;  nobody  thought  of  asking  you  to  stir  a  step 
for  us ;  but  we  asked  Loveit,  because  he 's  the  best  fellow  in 
the  world."  — "  And  for  that  very  reason  you  should  not 
ask  him,  because  you  know  he  can't  refuse  you  anything." 
— "  Indeed  though,"  cried  Loveit,  piqued,  "  there  you  're  mis- 
taken, for  I  could  refuse  if  I  chose  it."  Hardy  smiled ;  and 
Loveit,  half-afraid  of  his  contempt,  and  half-afraid  of  Tarl- 
ton's  ridicule,  stood  doubtful,  and  again  had  recourse  to  his 
battledore,  which  he  balanced  most  curiously  upon  his  fore- 
finger. "  Look  at  him  !  —  now  do  look  at  him  !"  cried  Tarl- 
ton ;  "  did  you  ever  in  your  life  see  anybody  look  so  silly ! 

—  Hardy  has  him  quite  under  his  thumb  ;  he 's  so  mortally 
afraid  of  him,  that  he  dare  not  turn  either  of  his  eyes  from 
the  tip  of  his  nose  !  look  how  he  squints  !"  —  "I  do  n't 
squint,"  said  Loveit,  looking  up,  "  and  nobody  has  me  under 
his  thumb  ;  and  what  Hardy  said  was  only  for  fear  I  should 
get  into  disgrace: — he's  the  best  friend  I  have."  Loveit 
spoke  this  with  more  than  usual  spirit,  for  both  his  heart 
and  his  pride  were  touched.  "  Come  along,  then,"  said 
Hardy,  taking  him  by  the  arm  in  an  affectionate  manner  ; 
and  he  was  just  going,  when  Tarlton  called  after  him,  "  Ay, 
go  along  with  its  best  friend,  and  take  care  it  does  not  get 
into  a  scrape;  —  good-by,  little  Panado!"  —  "Who  do  they 
call  little  Panado  ?"  said  Loveit,  turning  his  head  hastily 
back.    "  Never  mind,"  said  Hardy,  "  what  does  it  signify  V 

—  "No,"  said  Loveit,  "to  be  sure  it  does  not  signify,  b~t 


TARLTON.  43 

one  does  not  like  to  be  called  Little  Panado  ;  besides,"  added 
he,  after  going  a  few  steps  farther,  "they'll  all  think  it  so 
ill-natured,  —  I  had  better  go  back,  and  just  tell  them  that 
I  'm  sorry  I  can't  get  their  shuttlecock ;  —  do  come  back 
with  me."  —  "  No,"  said  Hardy,  "  I  can't  go  back ;  and 
you  'd  better  not.""  — "  But  I  assure  you,  I  won't  stay  a 
minute;  wait  for  me,"  added  Loveit,  and  he  slunk  back 
again  to  prove  that  he  was  not  little  Panado. 

Once  returned,  the  rest  followed  of  course  ;  for  to  support 
his  character  for  good-nature,  he  was  obliged  to  yield  to  the 
entreaties  of  his  companions  ;  and,  to  show  his  spirit,  leaped 
over  the  gate,  amid  the  acclamations  of  the  little  mob :  he 
was  quickly  out  of  sight. 

"  Here,"  cried  he,  returning  in  about  five  minutes,  quite 
out  of  breath,  "  I  've  got  the  shuttlecock ;  and  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  've  seen,"  cried  he,  panting  for  breath.  "  What  ?" 
cried  everybody,  eagerly.  "  Why,  just  at  the  turn  of  the 
corner,  at  the  end  of  the  lane,"  panting.  "Well,"  said 
Tarlton,  impatiently,  "  do  go  on."  — "  Let  me  just  take 
breath  first."  —  "  Pugh !  never  mind  your  breath."  —  "  Well, 
then,  just  at  the  turn  of  the  corner,  at  the  end  of  the  lane, 
as  I  was  looking  about  for  the  shuttlecock,  I  heard  a  great 
rustling  somewhere  near  me,  and  so  I  looked  where  it  could 
come  from  ;  and  I  saw  in  a  nice  little  garden,  on. the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  way,  a  boy,  about  as  big  as  Tarlton,  sitting 
in  a  great  tree,  shaking  the  branches ;  and  at  every  shake 
down  there  came  such  a  shower  of  fine  large  rosy  apples : 
they  made  my  mouth  water ;  so  I  called  to  the  boy,  to  beg 
one ;  but  he  said  he  could  not  give  me  one,  for  that  they 
were  his  grandfather's ;  and  just  at  that  moment,  from  be- 
hind a  gooseberry-bush,  up  popped  the  uncle  ;  the  grandfa- 
ther poked  his  head  out  of  the  window :  so  I  ran  off  as  fast 
as  my  legs  would  carry  me,  though  I  heard  him  bawling 
after  me  all  the  way." 

"  And  let  him  bawl,"  cried  Tarlton  ;  "  lie  shan't  bawl  for 
nothing:  I'm  determined  we'll  have  some  of  his  fine  large 


44  TARLTON. 

rosy  apples  before  I  sleep  to-night."  At  this  speech  a  geDO 
ral  silence  ensued ;  everybody  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
Tarlton  except  Loveit,  who  looked  down,  apprehensive  that 
he  should  be  drawn  on  much  farther  than  he  intended. 
"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  as  Hardy  told  me,  T  had 
better  not  have  come  back." 

Regardless  of  this  confusion,  Tarlton  continued,  "But 
before  I  say  any  more,  I  hope  we  have  no  spies  among  us 
If  there  is  any  among  you  afraid  to  be  flogged,  let  him 
march  off  this  instant  I"  Loveit  coloured,  bit  his  lips,  wished 
to  go,  but  had  not  courage  to  move  first.  He  waited  to  see 
what  everybody  else  would  do :  nobody  stirred ;  —  so  Loveit 
stood  stiil. 

"  "Well,  then,"  cried  Tarlton,  giving  his  hand  to  the  boy 
next  him,  then  to  the  next,  "  your  word  and  honour  that  you 
won't  betray  me  ;  but  stand  by  me  and  I  '11  stand  by  you." 
Each  boy  gave  his  hand  and  his  promise,  repeating,  "  Stand 
by  me,  and  I'll  stand  by  you."  Loveit  hung  back  till  the 
last ;  and  had  almost  twisted  off  the  button  of  the  boy's  coat 
who  screened  him,  when  Tarlton  came  up,  holding  out  his 
hand,  "  Come,  Loveit,  lad,  you  're  in  for  it :  stand  by  me,  and 
I  '11  stand  by  you."  —  "  Indeed,  Tarlton,"  expostulated  he, 
without  looking  him  in  the  fac«,  "  I  do  wish  you  'd  give  up 
this  scheme  ;  I  dare  say  all  the  apples  are  gone  by  this  time ; 
I  wish  you  would  —  do,  pray,  give  up  this  scheme."  — 
"What  scheme,  man?  you  haven't  heard  it  yet;  you  ma} 
as  well  know  your  text  before  you  begin  preaching."  The 
corners  of  Loveit's  mouth  could  not  refuse  to  smile,  though 
in  his  heart  he  felt  not  the  slightest  inclination  to  laugh. 
"  "Why,  I  do  n't  know  you,  I  declare  I  do  n't  know  you  to-day," 
said  Tarlton ;  "  you  used  to  be  the  best-natured,  most  agiee- 
able  lad  in  the  world,  and  would  do  anything  one  asked  you ; 
but  you  're  quite  altered  of  late,  as  we  were  saying  just  now, 
when  you  skulked  away  with  Hardy :  come,  do,  man,  pluck 
up  a  little  spirit,  and  be  one  of  us,  or  you  '11  make  us  all 
hate  you."  —  "  Rate  me  !"  repeated  Loveit,  with  terror  •  "  do, 


TARLTON.  45 

surely  you  won't  all  hate  me!"  and  he  mechanically 
stretched  out  his  hand,  which  Tarlton  shook  violently,  say- 
ing, "Ay,  now,  that's  right."  —  "Ay,  now,  that's  wrong!" 
whispered  Loveit' s  conscience ;  but  his  conscience  was  of 
no  use  to  him,  for  it  was  always  overpowered  by  the  voice 
of  numbers ;  and  though  he  had  the  wish,  he  never  had  the 
power,  to  do  right.  "  Poor  Loveit !  I  knew  he  would  not 
refuse  us,"  cried  his  companions ;  and  even  Tarlton,  the 
moment  he  shook  hands  with  him,  despised  him.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  weakness  of  mind  is  despised  both  by  the  good  and 
by  the  bad. 

The  league  being  thus  formed,  Tarlton  assumed  all  the 
airs  of  a  commander,  explained  his  schemes,  and  laid  the 
plan  of  attack  upon  the  poor  old  man's  apple-tree.  It  was 
the  only  one  he  had  in  the  world.  We  shall  not  dwell  upon 
their  consultation,  for  the  amusement  of  contriving  such 
expeditions  is  often  the  chief  thing  which  induces  idle  boys 
to  engage  in  them. 

There  was  a  small  window  at  the  end  of  the  back  stair- 
case, through  which,  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
Tarlton,  accompanied  by  Loveit  and  another  boy,  crept  out. 
It  was  a  moonlight  night ;  and,  after  crossing  the  field,  and 
climbing  the  gate,  directed  by  Loveit,  who  now  resolved  to 
go  through  the  affair  with  spirit,  they  proceeded  down  the 
lane  with  rash,  yet  fearful  steps.  At  a  distance,  Loveit  saw 
the  whitewashed  cottage,  and  the  apple-tree  beside  it :  they 
quickened  their  pace,  and  with  some  difficulty  scrambled 
through  the  hedge  which  fenced  the  garden,  though  not 
without  being  scratched  and  torn  by  the  briars.  Every- 
thing was  silent.  Yet  now  and  then  at  every  rustling  of  the 
leaves  they  started,  and  their  hearts  beat  violently.  Once. 
as  Loveit  was  climbing  the  apple-tree,  he  thought  he  hearts 
a  door  in  the  cottage  open,  and  earnestly  begged  his  com 
panions  to  desist  and  return  home.  This,  however,  he  could 
by  no  means  persuade  them  to  do,  until  thev  had  filled  thei. 
pockets  with  apples  ;  then,  to  his  great  jo^.    tLey  ..e^c/,/  L. 


46  TARLTON. 

crept  in  at  the  staircase  window,  and  each  retired,  as  softly 
as  possible,  to  his  own  apartment. 

Loveit  slept  in  the  room  with  Hardy,  whom  he  had  left 
fast  asleep,  and  whom  he  was  now  extremely  afraid  of 
wakening.  All  the  apples  were  emptied  out  of  Loveit's 
pockets,  and  lodged  with  Tarlton  till  the  morning,  for  fear 
the  smell  should  betray  the  secret  to  Hardy.  The  room  door 
was  apt  to  creak,  but  it  was  opened  with  such  precaution 
that  no  noise  could  be  heard,  and  Loveit  found  his  friend  as 
fast  asleep  as  when  he  left  him. 

"Ah  \"  said  he  to  himself,  "  how  quietly  he  sleeps  !  I  wish 
I  had  been  sleeping  too  \"  The  reproaches  of  Loveit' s  con- 
science, however,  served  no  other  purpose-  but  to  torment 
him  ;  he  had  not  sufficient  strength  of  mind  to  be  good. 
The  very  next  night,  in  spite  of  all  his  fears,  and  all  his 
penitence,  and  all  his  resolutions,  by  a  little  fresh  ridicule 
and  persuasion  he  was  induced  to  accompany  the  same  party 
on  a  similar  expedition.  We  must  observe,  that  the  neces- 
sity for  continuing  their  depredations  became  stronger  the 
third  day ;  for  though  at  first  only  a  small  party  had  been 
in  the  secret,  by  degrees  it  was  divulged  to  the  whole  school ; 
and  it  was  necessary  to  secure  secrecy  by  sharing  the  booty. 

Every  one  was  astonished  that  Hardy,  with  all  his  quick- 
ness and  penetration,  had  not  yet  discovered  their  proceed- 
ings ;  but  Loveit  could  not  help  suspecting  that  he  was  not 
quite  so  ignorant  as  he  appeared  to  be.  Loveit  had  strictly 
kept  his  promise  of  secrecy,  but  he  was  by  no  means  an 
artful  boy ;  and  in  talking  to  his  friend,  conscious  that  he 
had  somethiug  to  conceal,  he  was  perpetually  on  the  point 
of  betraying  himself ;  then,  recollecting  his  engagement,  he 
blushed,  stammered,  bungled ;  and  upon  Hardy's  asking 
him  what  he  meant,  would  answer,  with  a  silly  guilty  coun- 
tenance, that  he  did  not  know,  or  abruptly  break  off,  saying. 
"  Oh,  nothing !  nothing  at  all  I"  It  was  in  vain  that  he 
urged  Tarlton  to  permit  him  to  consult  his  friend  ;  a  gloom 
overspread  Tarlton's  brow,  when  he  began  to  talk  on  the 


TARLTON.  47 

subject,  and  he  always  returned  a  peremptory  refusal,  ac- 
companied by  some  such  taunting  expression  as  this  —  "I 
wish  we  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  such  a  sneaking  fellow. 
He  '11  betray  us  all,  I  see,  before  we  have  done  with  him.*' 
—  "  Well,"  said  Loveit  to  himself,  "sol  am  abused  after 
all,  and  called  a  sneaking  fellow  for  my  pains  ;  that 's  rather 
hard,  to  be  sure,  when  I've  got  so  little  by  the  job." 

In  truth  he  had  not  got  much,  for  in  the  division  of  the 
booty  only  one  apple,  and  the  half  of  another,  which  was 
only  half-ripe,  happened  to  fall  to  his  share  ;  though,  to  be 
sure,  when  they  had  all  eaten  their  apples,  he  had  the  satis- 
faction to  hear  everybody  declare  they  were  very  sorry  they 
had  forgotten  to  offer  some  of  theirs  to  "poor  Loveit!" 

In  the  mean  time  the  visits  to  the  apple-tree  had  been 
now  too  frequently  repeated  to  remain  concealed  from  the 
old  man,  who  lived  in  the  cottage.  He  used  to  examine  his 
only  tree  very  frequently,  and  missing  numbers  of  rosy  ap- 
ples which  he  had  watched  ripen,  he,  though  not  much  prone 
to  suspicion,  began  to  think  that  there  was  something  going 
wrong;  especially  as  a  gap  was  made  in  his  hedge,  and 
there  were  several  small  footsteps  in  his  flower-beds. 

The  good  old  man  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  give  pain  to 
any  living  creature,  much  less  to  children,  of  whom  he  was 
particularly  fond.  Nor  was  he  in  the  least  avaricious  ;  for 
though  he  was  not  rich,  he  had  enough  to  live  upon,  because 
he  had  been  very  industrious  in  his  youth :  and  he  was  al- 
ways very  ready  to  part  with  the  little  he  had :  nor  was  he 
a  cross  old  man.  If  anything  would  have  made  him  angry, 
it  would  have  been  the  seeing  his  favourite  tree  robbed,  as 
he  had  promised  himself  the  pleasure  of  giving  his  red 
apples  to  his  grandchildren  on  his  birthday.  However,  he 
looked  up  at  the  tree  in  sorrow  rather  than  in  anger,  and 
leaning  upon  his  staff,  he  b  >gan  to  consider  what  he  had 
best  do. 

"  If  I  complain  to  their  master,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  they 
will  certainly  be  flogged,  and  that  I  should  be  sorry  for ;  yet 


48  TARLTON. 

they  must  not  be  let  to  go  on  stealing,  —  that  would  be 
worse  still,  for  that  would  surely  bring  them  to  the  gallowe 
in  the  end.  Let  me  see  —  oh,  ay,  that  will  do  ;  I  will  bor* 
row  Farmer  Kent's  dog  Barker,  —  he  '11  keep  them  off,  I  '11 
answer  for  it." 

Farmer  Kent  lent  his  dog  Barker,  cautioning  his  neigh- 
.bour  at  the  same  time  to  be  sure  to  chain  him  well,  for  he 
was  the  fiercest  mastiff  in  England.  The  old  man,  with 
Farmer  Kent's  assistance,  chained  him  fast  to  the  trunk  of 
the  apple-tree. 

Night  came,  and  Tarlton,  Loveit,  and  his  companions  re- 
turned at  the  usual  hour.  Grown  bolder  now  by  frequent 
success,  they  came  on  talking  and  laughing.  But  the  mo- 
ment they  had  set  their  foot  in  the  garden,  the  dog  started 
up ;  and  shaking  his  chain  as  he  sprang  forward,  barked 
with  unremitting  fury.  They  stood  still  as  if  fixed  to  the 
spot.  There  was  just  moonlight  enough  to  see  the  dog. 
"  Let  us  try  the  other  side  of  the  tree,"  said  Tarlton.  But 
to  whichever  side  they  turned,  the  dog  flew  round  in  an  in- 
stant, barking  with  increased  fury. 

"  He  '11  break  his  chain  and  tear  us  to  pieces,"  cried  Tarl- 
ton ;  and,  struck  with  terror,  he  immediately  threw  down 
the  basket  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  betook  himself  to 
flight  with  the  greatest  precipitation.  "  Help  me  !  oh,  pray, 
help !  I  can't  get  through  the  hedge,"  cried  Loveit  in  a  la- 
mentable tone,  while  the  dog  growled  hideously,  and  sprang 
forward  to  the  extremity  of  his  chain.  "  I  can't  get  out  I 
Oh,  pray,  dear  Tarlton,  stay  for  me  one  minute !" 

He  called  in  vain ;  he  was  left  to  struggle  through  his 
difficulties  by  himself;  and  of  all  his  dear  friends,  not  one 
turned  back  to  help  him.  At  last,  torn  and  terrified,  he  got 
through  the  hedge  and  ran  home,  despising  his  companions 
for  their  selfishness.  Nor  could  he  help  observing  that 
Tarlton,  with  all  his  vaunted  prowess,  was  the  first  to  run 
away  from  the  appearance  of  danger.  The  next  morning 
he  could  not  help  reproaching  the  nartv  with  their  conduct. 


TARLTON.  49 

"  Why  could  not  you,  any  of  you,  stay  one  minute  to  help 
me  ?"  said  he.  "  We  did  not  hear  you  call,"  answered  one. 
"  I  was  so  frightened,"  said  another,  "  I  would  not  have 
turned  back  for  the  whole  world."  —  "  And  you,  Tarlton." 

—  "I !"  said  Tarlton.  " Had  not  I  enough  to  do  to  take 
care  of  myself,  you  blockhead  ?  Every  one  for  himself  in 
this  world!"  —  "  So  I  see,"  said  Loveit,  gravely.  "Well, 
man !  is  there  anything  strange  in  that  ?"  —  "  Strange  I  why 
yes ;  I  thought  you  all  loved  me  ?"  —  "  Lord,  love  you,  lad  1 
so  we  do ;  but  we  love  ourselves  better."  —  "  Hardy  would 
not  have  served  me  so,  however,"  said  Loveit,  turning  away 
in  disgust.     Tarlton  was  alarmed. 

"  Pugh !"  said  he,  "  what  nonsense  have  you  taken  into 
your  brain?  Think  no  more  about  it.  We  are  all  very 
sorry,  and  beg  your  pardon ;  come,  shake  hands,  forgive  and 
forget."    Loveit  gave  his  hand,  but  gave  it  rather  coldly : 

—  "I  forgive  it  with  all  my  heart,"  said  he,  " but  I  cannot 
forget  it  so  soon !"  —  "  Why,  then,  you  are  not  such  a  good- 
humoured  fellow  as  we  thought  you  were.  Surely  you  can- 
not bear  malice,  Loveit  ?"  Loveit  smiled,  and  allowed  that 
he  certainly  could  not  bear  malice.  "  Well,  then,  ccme ; 
you  know  at  the  bottom  we  all  love  you,  and  would  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  for  you."  Poor  Loveit,  flattered  in  his 
foible,  began  to  believe  that  they  did  love  him  at  the  bottom. 
as  they  said,  and  even  with  his  eyes  open  consented  again 
to  be  duped. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  thought  he,  "  that  I  should  set  such 
value  upon  the  love  of  those  I  despise !  When  I  'm  one*, 
out  of  this  scrape,  I  '11  have  no  more  to  do  with  them,  I  'm 
determined." 

Compared  with  his  friend  Hardy,  his  new  associates  did 
indeed  appear  contemptible :  for  all  this  time  Hardy  had 
treated  him  with  uniform  kindness,  avoided  to  pry  into  his 
secrets,  yet  seemed  ready  tc  receive  his  confidence,  if  it  had 
been  offered. 

After  school  in  the  evening,  as  he  was  standing  silently 
4 


50  TARLTON. 

beside  Hardy,  who  was  ruling  a  sheet  of  paper  for  him, 
Tarlton,  in  his  brutal  manner,  came  up,  and  seizing  him  by 
the  arm,  said,  "  Come  along  with  me,  Loveit,  I  've  some- 
thing to  say  to  you."  —  "I  can't  come  now,"  said  Loveit, 
drawing  an  ay  his  arm.  "  Ah,  do  come  now,"  said  Tarlton 
in  a  voice  of  persuasion.  "  Well,  I  '11  come  presently."  — 
"  Nay,  but  do,  pray,  there 's  a  good  fellow ;  come  now,  be- 
cause I  've  something  to  say  to  you."  —  "  What  is  it  you  've 
got  to  say  to  me  ?  I  wish  you  'd  let  me  alone,"  said  Loveit ; 
yet  at  the  same  time  he  suffered  himself  to  be  led  away. 

Tarlton  took  particular  pains  to  humour  him  and  bring 
him  into  temper  again ;  and  even  though  he  was  not  very 
apt  to  part  with  his  playthings,  went  so  far  as  to  say, 
"  Loveit,  the  other  day  you  wanted  a  top ;  I  '11  give  you 
mine,  if  you  desire  it."  Loveit  thanked  him,  and  was  over- 
joyed at  the  thoughts  of  possessing  this  top.  "But  what 
did  you  want  to  say  to  me  just  now?"  —  "Ay,  we'll  talk 
of  that  presently  —  not  yet  —  when  we  get  out  of  hearing." 

—  "  Nobody  is  near  us,"  said  Loveit.  "  Come  a  little  far- 
ther, however,"  said  Tarlton,  looking  round  suspiciously. 
"  Well,  now,  well !"  —  "  You  know  the  dog  that  frightened 
os  so  last  night?"  —  "Yes."  —  "It  will  never  frighten  us 
again."  —  "  Won't  it?  — how  so?"  — "Look  here,"  said 
Tarlton,  drawing  from  his  pocket  something  wrapped  in  a 
blue  handkerchief.  "What's  that?"  Tarlton  opened  it. 
"  Raw  meat !"  exclaimed  Loveit.     "  How  came  you  by  it?" 

—  "  Tom,  the  servant  boy,  Tom  got  it  for  me,  and  I  'm  to 
give  him  sixpence."  —  "  And  is  it  for  the  dog  ?"  —  "  Yes ;  I 
vow'd  I  'd  be  revenged  on  him,  and  after  all  this  he  '11  never 
bark  again."  —  "  Never  bark  again  !  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Is  it  poison  ?"  exclaimed  Loveit,  starting  back  with  horror. 
"  Only  poison  for  a  dog,"  said  Tarlton,  confused ;  "  you 
could  not  look  more  shocked,  if  it  were  poison  for  a  Chris- 
tian." Loveit  stood  for  nearly  a  minute  in  profound  silence. 
"  Tarlton,"  said  he  at  last,  in  a  changed  tone  and  altered 
manner  "  I  did  not  know  you;  I  will  have  no  more  to  df 


TARLTON.  51 

wit!.  Jim" —  "Nay,  but  stay,"  said  Tarlton,  catching  hold 
of  his  arm,  "  stay,  I  was  only  joking."  —  "  Let  go  my  arm, 
you  were  in  earnest."  —  "  But  then  that  was  before  I  knew 
there  was  any  hariu  !  If  you  think  there 's  any  harm — " 
"If!"  said  Loveit.  "Why  you  know,  I  might  not  know; 
for  Tom  told  me  it's  a  thing  that's  often  done ;  ask  Tom." 
— "I'll  ask  nobody!  surely  we  know  better  what's  right 
and  wrong  than  Tom  does."  —  "  But  only  just  ask  him,  to 
hear  what  he  '11  say."  —  "  I  do  n't  want  to  hear  what  he  '11 
say,"  cried  Loveit,  vehemently.  "  The  dog  will  die  in  ago- 
nies —  in  horrid  agonies  !  There  was  a  dog  poisoned  at  my 
father's,  I  saw  him  in  the  yard.  Poor  creature  !  he  lay,  and 
howled,  and  writhed  himself!" — "Poor  creature!  Well, 
there 's  no  harm  done  now,"  cried  Tarlton,  in  a  hypocritical 
tone.  But  though  he  thought  fit  to  dissemble  with  Loveit, 
he  was  thoroughly  determined  in  his  purpose. 

Poor  Loveit,  in  haste  to  get  away,  returned  to  his  friend 
Hardy  ;  but  his  mind  was  in  such  agitation,  that  he  neither 
talked  nor  moved  like  himself;  and  two  or  three  times  his 
heart  was  so  full  that  he  was  ready  to  burst  into  tears. 

"  How  good-natured  you  are  to  me  !"  said  he  to  Hardy, 
as  he  was  trying  vainly  to  entertain  him ;  "  but  if  you 
knew — "  Here  he  stopped  short,  for  the  bell  for  evening 
prayer  rang,  and  they  all  took  their  places,  and  knelt  down. 
After  prayer,  as  they  were  going  to  bed,  Loveit  stopped 
Tarlton.  "  Well?"  asked  he,  in  an  inquiring  manner,  fix- 
ing his  eyes  upon  him.  "  Well!"  replied  Tarlton,  in  an 
audacious  tone,  as  if  he  meant  to  set  his  inquiring  eye  at 
defiance.  "  What  do  you  mean  to  do  to-night?"  —  "  To  go 
to  sleep,  as  you  do,  I  suppose,"  replied  Tarlton,  turning 
away  abruptly,  and  whistling  as  he  walked  off. 

"  Oh,  he  has  certainly  changed  his  mind  !"  said  Loveit  to 
himself,  "  else  he  could  not  whistle."  About  ten  minutes 
after  this,  as  he  and  Hardy  were  undressing,  Hardy  suddenly 
recollected  that  he  had  left  his  new  kite  out  upon  the  grass. 
"Oh!"  said  he,  "it  will  be  quite  spoiled  befo:e  the  morn- 


52  TARLTON. 

ing."  —  "  Call  Tom,"  said  Loveit,  "  and  bid  him  bring  it  in 
for  you  in  a  minute."  They  both  went  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs  to  call  Tom ;  no  one  answered.  They  called  again 
louder,  "  Is  Tom  below  V  —  "  I  'm  here,"  answered  he  at 
last,  coming  out  of  Tarlton's  room  with  a  look  of  mixed 
embarrassment  and  effrontery.  And,  as  he  was  receiving 
Hardy's  commission,  Loveit  saw  the  corner  of  the  blue 
handkerchief  hanging  out  of  his  pocket.  This  excited  fresh 
suspicion  in  Loveit's  mind ;  but,  without  saying  one  word, 
he  immediately  stationed  himself  at  the  window  in  his  room, 
which  looked  out  towards  the  lane ;  and,  as  the  moon  was 
risen,  he  could  see  if  any  one  passed  that  way.  "  What  are 
you  doing  there  ?"  said  Hardy,  after  he  had  been  watching 
some  time  ;  "  why  do  n't  you  come  to  bed  ?"  Loveit  "re- 
turned no  answer,  but  continued  standing  at  the  window. 
Nor  did  he  watch  long  in  vain ;  presently  he  saw  Tom 
gliding  slowly  along  a  by-path,  and  get  over  the  gate  into 
the  lane. 

"  He 's  gone  to  do  it !"  exclaimed  Loveit  aloud,  with  an 
emotion  which  he  could  not  command.  "  Who 's  gone  ?  to 
do  what  1"  cried  Hardy,  starting  up.  "  How  cruel,  how 
wicked!"  continued  Loveit.  "What's  cruel  —  what's 
wicked  ?  speak  out  at  once  !"  returned  Hardy,  in  that  com- 
manding  tone  in  which,  in  moments  of  danger,  strong 
minds  feel  themselves  entitled  to  assume  toward  weak  ones. 
Loveit  instantly,  though  in  an  incoherent  manner,  explained 
the  affair  to  him.  Scarcely  had  the  word  passed  his  lips, 
when  Hardy  sprang  up,  and  began  dressing  himself  without 
saying  one  syllable.  "  For  God's  sake !  what  are  you  going 
to  do?"  said  Loveit,  in  great  anxiety.  "  They'll  never  for- 
give me  !  do  n't  betray  m  i  !  They  '11  never  forgive  me ! 
pray,  speak  to  me!  only  say  you  won't  betray  us!"  — 
"  I  will  not  betray  you,  trust  to  me,"  said  Hardy ;  and  he 
left  the  room,  and  Loveit  stood  in  amazement :  while,  in 
%he  mean  time,  Hardy,  in  hopes  of  overtaking  Tom  before 
me  fate  of  the  poor  dog  was  decided,  ran  with  all  possible 


TARLTON.  53 

§peed  across  the  meadow,  and  then  down  the  lane.  Ho 
came  up  with  Tom  just  as  he  was  climbing  the  bank  into  the 
old  man's  garden.  Hardy,  too  much  out  of  breath  to  speak, 
seized  hold  of  him,  dragged  him  down,  detaining  him  with 
a  firm  grasp,  while  he  panted  for  utterance.  "  "What,  Mas- 
ter Hardy,  is  it  you?  what's  the  matter?  what  do  you 
want  ?"  —  "I  want  the  poisoned  meat  that  you  have  in  your 
pocket."  —  "Who  told  you  that  I  had  any  such  thing?" 
said  Tom,  clapping  his  hand  upon  his  guilty  pocket.  "  Give 
it  me  quietly,  and  I  '11  let  you  off."  —  "  Sir,  upon  my  word 
I  have  n't !  I  did  n't !  I  do  n't  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
Tom,  trembling,  though  he  was  by  far  the  strongest  of  the 
two  ;  "  indeed,  I  do  n't  know  what  you  mean."  —  "  You  do," 
said»  Hardy,  with  great  indignation ;  and  a  violent  struggle 
immediately  commenced.  The  dog,  now  alarmed  by  their 
voices,  began  to  bark  outrageously.  Tom  was  terrified  lest 
the  old  man  should  come  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter ; 
his  strength  forsook  him,  and  flinging  the  handkerchief  and 
meat  over  the  hedge,  he  ran  away  with  all  his  speed.  The 
handkerchief  fell  within  reach  of  the  dog,  who  instantly 
snapped  at  it ;  luckily  it  did  not  come  untied.  Hardy  saw 
a  pitchfork  on  a  dunghill  close  beside  him,  and  seizing  upon 
it,  stuck  it  into  the  handkerchief.  The  dog  pulled,  tore, 
growled,  grappled,  yelled:  it  was  impossible  to  get  the 
handkerchief  from  between  his  teeth;  but  the  knot  was 
loosed,  the  meat,  unperceived  by  the  dog,  dropped  out ;  and 
while  he  dragged  off  the  handkerchief  in  triumph,  Hardy, 
with  inexpressible  joy,  plunged  the  pitchfork  into  the  poi- 
soned meat,  and  bore  it  away. 

Never  did  hero  retire  with  more  satisfaction  from  a  field 
of  battle.  Full  of  the  pleasure  of  successful  benevolence, 
Hardy  tripped  joyfully  home,  and  vaulted  over  the  window- 
sill,  when  the  first  object  he  beheld  was  Mr.  Power,  the 
usher  standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  with  a  candle  in 
his  ha^d. 

"  Come  up,  whoever  you  are,"  said  Mr.  tVilliam  Power. 


54  TARLTON. 

in  a  stern  voice  ;  "  I  thought  I  should  find  you  out  at  last. 
Come  up,  whoever  you  are  !"  Hardy  obeyed  without  reply. 
"  Hardy  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Power,  starting  back  with  aston- 
ishment I  "  is  it  you,  Mr.  Hardy  ?"  repeated  he,  holding  the 
light  to  his  face.  "  Why,  sir,"  said  he  in  a  sneering  tone, 
"  I  'ni  sure,  if  Mr.  Trueman  was  here,  he  would  n't  believe 
his  own  eyes ;  but  for  my  part,  I  saw  through  you  long 
since ;  I  never  like  saints,  for  my  share.  Will  you  please 
to  do  me  the  favour,  sir,  if  it  is  not  too  much  trouble,  to 
empty  your  pockets  t"  Hardy  obeyed  in  silence.  "  Hey- 
day! meat!  raw  meat!  what  next?"  —  "That's  all,"  said 
Hardy,  emptying  his  pockets  inside  out.  "  That  is  all," 
said  Mi.  Power,  taking  up  the  meat.  "Pray,  sir,"  said 
Hardy,  eagerly,  "  let  that  meat  be  burned,  it  is  poisoned." 
—  "  Poisoned  !"  cried  Mr.  William  Power,  letting  it  drop 
out  of  his  fingers  ;  "  you  wretch !"  looking  at  him  with  a 
menacing  air,  "what  is  all  this  ?  speak."  Hardy  was  silent. 
"  Why  do  n't  you  speak  ?"  cried  he,  shaking  him  by  the 
shoulder  impatiently.  Still  Hardy  was  silent.  "  Down 
upon  your  knees  this  minute,  and  confess  all ;  tell  me  where 
you've  been,  and  what  you've  been  doing,  and  who  are 
your  accomplices,  for  I  know  there  is  a  gang  of  you :  so," 
added  he,  pressing  heavily  upon  Hardy's  shoulder,  "  down 
upon  your  knees  this  minute,  and  confess  the  whole  ;  that 's 
your  only  way  now  to  get  off  yourself.  If  you  hope  for  my 
pardon,  I  can  tell  you  that  it 's  not  to  be  had  without  asking 
for."  —  '"Sir,"  said  Hardy,  in  a  firm  but  respectful  voice, 
"  I  have  no  pardon  to  ask,  I  have  nothing  to  confess,  I  am 
innocen^ ,  but  if  I  were  not,  I  would  never  try  to  get  off 
myself  by  betraying  my  companions."  —  "Very  well,  sir! 
very  well !  very  fine  !  stick  to  it,  stick  to  it,  I  advise  you  — 
and  we  shall  see.  And  how  will  you  look  to-morrow,  Mr. 
Innocent,  when  my  uncle  the  doctor  comes  home  ?"  —  "  As 
I  dc  now,  sir,"  said  Hardy,  unmoved.  His  composure  threw 
Mr.  Power  into  a  rage  too  great  for  utterance.  "  Sir,"  con- 
tinued Hardy,  "ever  since  I  have  been  at  scl  ool  I  nevei 


TARLTON.  55 

told  a  lie,  and  therefore,  sir,  I  hope  you  will  believe  me 
now,  upon  my  word  and  honour,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing 
wrong."  —  "  Nothing  wrong !  better  and  better  1  what,  when 
1  catched  you  going  out  at  night?"  —  "  That,  to  be  sure, 
was  wrong,"  said  Hardy,  recollecting  himself;  "but  except 
that — "  "  Except  that,  sir !  I  will  except  nothing.  Come 
along  with  me,  young  gentleman ;  your  time  for  pardon  is 
past."  Saying  these  words,  he  pulled  Hardy  along  a  nar- 
row passage  to  a  small  closet  set  apart  for  the  desperate 
offenders,  and  usually  known  by  the  name  of  the  Black-hole. 
"  There,  sir,  take  up  your  lodging  there  for  to-night,"  said 
he,  pushing  him  in  ;  "  to-morrow  I  '11  know  more,  or  I  '11 
know  why,"  added  he,  double-locking  the  door  with  a  tre- 
mendous noise  upon  his  prisoner,  and  locking  also  the  door 
at  the  end  of  the  passage,  so  that  no  one  could  have  access 
to  him.  "  So  now  I  think  I  have  you  safe  !"  said  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Power  to  himselt,  stalking  off  with  steps  which  made 
the  whole  gallery  resound,  and  which  made  many  a  guilty 
heart  tremble.  The  conversation  which  had  passed  between 
Hardy  and  Mr.  Power  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  had  been 
anxiously  listened  to,  but  only  a  word  or  two  here  and  there 
had  been  distinctly  overheard.  The  locking  of  the  black- 
hole  door  was  a  terrible  sound  —  some  knew  not  what  it 
portended,  and  others  knew  too  well;  all  assembled  in  the 
morning  with  faces  of  anxiety.  Tarlton's  and  Loveit's  were 
the  most  agitated,  Tarlton  for  himself;  Loveit  for  his  friend, 
for  himself,  for  everybody.  Every  one  of  the  party,  and 
Tarlton  at  their  head,  surrounded  him  with  reproaches,  and 
considered  him  as  the  author  of  the  evils  which  hung  over 
them.  "  How  could  you  do  so  ?  aid  why  did  you  say  any- 
thing to  Hardy  about  it  ?  when  you  had  promised,  too !  — 
Oh,  what  shall  we  do !  what  a  scrape  you  have  brought  us 
into!  Loveit,  it's  all  your  fault!"  —  "All  my  fault!"  re- 
peated poor  Loveit,  with  a  sigh ;  "  well,  that  is  hard." 

"Goodness!  there's  the  bell,"  exclaimed  a  number  if 
voices  at  once.     "  Now  for  it !"     They  all  stood  in  a  half- 


56  TARLTOK. 

circle  for  morning  prayers  !  they  listened,  "  Here  he  is  com 
ing !  —  No  —  Yes  —  Here  he  is  V  And  Mr.  William  Power, 
with  a  gloomy  brow,  appeared  and  walked  up  to  his  place 
at  the  head  of  the  room.  They  knelt  down  to  prayers  ;  and 
the  moment  they  rose,  Mr.  William  Power,  laying  his  hand 
upon  the  table,  cried,  "  Stand  still,  gentlemen,  if  you  please." 
Everybody  stood  stock  still ;  he  walked  out  of  the  circle ; 
they  guessed  that  he  was  gone  for  Hardy,  and  the  whole 
room  was  in  commotion.  Each  with  eagerness  asked  each 
what  none  could  answer,  "  Has  he  told?"  —  "  What  has  he 
told  ?"  —  "  Who  has  he  told  of?"  —  "  I  hope  he  has  not  told 
of  me  !"  cried  they.  "  I  '11  answer  for  it  he  has  told  of  all 
of  us,"  said  Tarlton.  "  And  I  '11  answer  for  it  he  has  told 
of  none  of  us,"  answered  Loveit,  with  a  sigh.  "  You  do  n't 
think  he 's  such  a  fool,  when  he  can  get  himself  off,"  said 
Tarlton. 

At  this  instant  the  prisoner  was  led  in,  and  as  he  passed 
through  the  circle,  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  him :  his  eye 
turned  upon  no  one,  not  even  upon  Loveit,  who  pulled  him 
by  the  coat  as  he  passed  —  every  one  felt  almost  afraid  to 
breathe.  "  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Power,  sitting  down  in  Mr. 
Trueman's  elbow-chair,  and  placing  the  prisoner  opposite 
to  him  ;  "  well,  sir,  what  have  you  to  say  to  me  this  morn- 
ing?" —  "  Nothing,  sir,"  answered  Hardy,  in  a  decided  yet, 
modest  manner;  "rothing  but  what  I  said  last  night."  — 
"Nothing  more?"  —  "Nothing  more,  sir."  —  But  I  have 
something  more  t'  say  to  you,  sir,  then ;  and  a  great  deal 
more,  I  promise  you,  before  I  have  done  with  you ;"  and 
then  seizing  him  in  a  fury,  he  was  just  going  to  give  him  a 
severe  flogging,  when  the  school-room  door  opened,  and  Mr. 
Truenian  appeared,  followed  by  an  old  man,  whom  Loveit 
immediately  knew.  He  leaned  upon  his  stick  as  he  walked, 
and  in  his  other  hand  carried  a  basket  of  apples.  When 
they  came  within  the  circle,  Mr.  Trueman  stopped  short. 
"  Hardy  !"  exclaimed  he,  with  a  voice  of  unfeigned  surprise, 
while  Mr.  William  Power  stood  with  his  hand  suspended. 


TARLTON.  57 

*•  Ay,  Hardy,  sir,"  repeated  he.  "  I  told  hire  you  *d  not  be- 
lieve your  own  eyes."  Mr.  Trueman  advanced  with  a  slow 
step.  "Now,  sir,  give  me  leave,"  said  the  usher,  eagerly 
drawing  him  aside  and  whispering.  "  So,  sir,"  said  Mr.  T. 
when  the  whisper  was  done,  addressing  himself  to  Hardy 
with  a  voice  and  manner  which,  had  he  been  guilty,  must 
have  pierced  him  to  the  heart,  "  I  find  I  have  been  deceived 
in  you  —  it  is  but  three  hours  ago  that  I  told  your  uncle  I 
never  had  a  boy  in  my  school  in  whom  I  placed  so  much 
confidence ;  but  after  all  this  show  of  honour  and  integrity, 
the  moment  my  back  is  turned  you  are  the  first  to  set  an 
example  of  disobedience  to  my  orders.  Why  do  I  talk  of 
disobedience  to  my  commands  —  you  are  a  thief  I"  —  "I, 
sir !"  exclaimed  Hardy,  no  longer  able  to  suppress  his  feel- 
ings. "  You,  sir,  —  you  and  some  others,"  said  Mr.  True- 
man,  looking  round  the  room  with  a  penetrating  glance  — 
"  you  and  some  others — "  "  Ay,  sir,"  interrupted  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Power,  "get  that  out  of  him  if  you  can — ask  him." 
—  "I  will  ask  him  nothing ;  I  shall  neither  put  his  truth 
nor  his  honour  to  the  trial ;  truth  and  honour  are  not  to  be 
expected  among  thieves."  —  "I  am  not  a  thief !  I  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  thieves,"  cried  Hardy,  indignantly. 
"  Have  you  not  robbed  this  old  man  ?  do  n't  you  know  the 
taste  of  these  apples  ?"  said  Mr.  Trueman,  taking  one  out 
of  the  basket.  "No,  sir,  I  do  not;  I  never  touched  one  of 
that  old  man's  apples."  —  "  Never  touched  one  of  them !  I 
suppose  this  is  some  vile  equivocation ;  you  have  done 
worse  ;  you  have  had  the  barbarity,  the  baseness,  to  attempt 
to  poison  his  dog ;  the  poisoned  meat  was  found  in  youi 
pocket  last  night."  —  "  The  poisoned  meat  was  found  in  my 
pocket,  sir ;  but  I  never  attempted  to  poison  the  dog ;  1 
saved  his  life."  — "  Lord  bless  him,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  Nonsense  !  cunning  \"  said  Mr.  Power ;  "  I  hope  you 
won't  let  him  impose  upon  you  so,  sir."  —  "  No,  he  cannot 
impose  upon  me  ;  I  have  a  proof  he  is  little  prepared  for," 
said  Mr.  Trueman,  producing  the  blue  handkerchief  in 
"which  the  meat  had  been  wrapped. 


58  TARLTON. 

Tarlton  turned  pale  ;  Hardy's  countenance  never  changed. 
"  Do  n't  you  know  this  handkerchief,  sir  ?"  —  "I  do,  sir." — 
"  Is  it  not  yours  ?"  —  "  No,  sir."  —  "  Do  n't  you  know  whose 
it  is  ?"  cried  Mr.  Power.     Hardy  was  silent. 

. "  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Trueman,  "  I  am  not  fond 
of  punishing  you ;  but  when  I  do  it,  you  know  it  is  always 
in  earnest.  I  will  begin  with  the  eldest  of  you  ;  I  will  be- 
gin with  Hardy,  and  flog  you  with  my  own  hands  till  this 
handkerchief  is  owned."  —  "  I  'm  sure  it 's  not  mine."  — 
"  And  I  'm  sure  it 's  none  of  mine,"  burst  from  every  mouth, 
while  they  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay,  for  none  but 
Hardy,  Loveit,  and  Tarlton  knew  the  secret.  "  My  cane  !" 
said  Mr.  Trueman,  and  Power  handed  him  the  cane  —  Loveit 
groaned  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart —  Tarlton  leaned  back 
against  the  wall  with  a  black  countenance —  Hardy  looked 
with  a  steady  eye  at  the  cane. 

"  But  first,"  said  Mr.  Trueman,  laying  down  the  cane, 
"  let  us  see ;  perhaps  we  may  find  out  the  owner  of  this 
handkerchief  another  way,"  examining  the  corners  ;  it  was 
torn  almost  to  pieces,  but  luckily  the  corner  that  was  marked 
remained. 

"  J.  T. !"  cried  Mr.  Trueman.  Every  eye  was  turned 
upon  the  guilty  Tarlton,  who,  now  as  pale  as  ashes,  and 
trembling  in  every  limb,  sank  down  upon  his  knees,  and  in 
a  whining  voice  begged  for  mercy.  "  Upon  my  word  and 
honour,  sir,  I  '11  tell  you  all ;  I  should  never  have  thought 
of  stealing  the  apples  if  Loveit  had  not  first  told  me  of 
them ;  and  it  was  Tom  who  first  put  the  poisoning  the  dog 
into  my  head  ;  it  was  he  that  carried  the  meat ;  was  n't  it?" 
said  he,  appealing  to  Hardy,  whose  word  he  knew  must  be 
believed.  "  Oh,  dear  sir !"  continued  he,  as  Mr.  Trueman 
began  to  move  towards  him,  "  do  let  me  off —  do  pray  let 
me  off  this  time  !  I  'm  not  the  only  one  indee  i,  sir !  I  hope 
you  won't  make  me  an  example  for  the  rest  —  it  *s  very  hard 
I  'm  to  be  flogged  more  than  they  !"  —  "  I  'm  not  going  to 
flog  you."  — "  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Tartar  getting  up, 


TARLTON.  59 

and  wiping  his  eyes.  "You  need  not  thank  me,"  said  Mr. 
Trueman.  "  Take  your  handkerchief —  go  out  of  this  room 
—  out  of  this  house  —  let  me  never  see  you  more." 

"  If  I  had  any  hopes  of  him,"  said  Mr.  Trueman,  as  he 
shut  the  door  after  him,  "  if  I  had  any  hopes  of  himr  I 
would  have  punished  him :  but  I  have  none  —  punishment 
is  meant  only  to  make  people  better ;  and  those  who  have 
any  hopes  of  themselves  will  know  how  to  submit  to  it." 

At  these  words,  Loveit  first,  and  immediately  all  the  rest 
of  the  guilty  party,  stepped  out  of  the  ranks,  confessed  their 
fault,  and  declared  themselves  ready  to  bear  any  punish- 
ment their  master  thought  proper.  "  Oh,  they  have  been 
punished  enough,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  forgive  them,  sir." 

Hardy  looked  as  if  he  wished  to  speak. 

"Not  because  you  ask  it,"  said  Mr.  Trueman;  "though 
I  should  be  glad  to  oblige  you  —  it  wouldn't  be  just  —  but 
there"  (pointing  to  Hardy),  "there  is  one  who  has  merited 
a  reward ;  the  highest  I  can  give  him  is  the  pardon  of  his 
companions." 

Hardy  bowed,  and  his  face  glowed  with  pleasure,  while 
everybody  present  sympathized  in  his  feelings  —  "I  am 
sure,"  thought  Loveit,  "  this  is  a  lesson  I  shall  never  forget." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  faltering  voice, 
"  it  was  n't  for  the  sake  of  my  apples  that  I  spoke ;  and 
you,  sir,"  said  he  to  Hardy,  "  I  thank  you  for  saving  my 
dog.  If  you  please,  I  '11  plant  on  that  mount,  opposite  the 
window,  a  young  apple-tree,  from  my  old  one  ;  I  will  water 
it,  and  take  care  of  it  with  my  owk  hands  for  your  sake,  as 
long  as  I  am  able.  And  may  God  bless  you !"  (laying  his 
trembling  hands  upon  Hardy's  head,)  "may  God  bless  you 
—  I  'm  sure  God  will  bless  all  such  boyo  as  you  are." 


THE   FALSE   KEY. 


Mr.  Spencer,  a  very  benevolent  and  sensible  man,  under 
took  the  education  of  several  poor  children.  Among  the 
rest  was  a  boy  of  the  name  of  Franklin,  whom  he  had  bred 
up  from  the  time  he  was  five  years  old.  Franklin  had  tho 
misfortune  to  be  the  son  of  a  man  of  infamous  character ; 
and  for  many  years  this  was  a  disgrace  and  reproach  to  hi*? 
child.  When  any  of  the  neighbours'  children  quarrelled 
with  him,  they  used  to  tell  him  he  would  turn  out  like  his 
father.  But  Mr.  Spencer  always  assured  him  that  he  might 
make  himself  whatever  he  pleased ;  that  by  behaving  well 
he  would  certainly,  sooner  or  later,  secure  „the  esteem  and 
love  of  all  who  knew  him,  even  of  those  who  had  the  strong- 
est prejudice  against  him  on  his  father's  account. 

This  hope  was  very  delightful  to  Franklin,  and  he  showed 
the  strongest  desire  to  learn  to  do  everything  that  was  right ; 
so  that  Mr.  Spencer  soon  grew  fond  of  him,  and  took  great 
pains  to  instruct  him,  and  to  give  him  all  the  good  habits 
and  principles  which  might  make  him  a  useful,  respectable, 
and  happy  man. 

When  he  was  about  thirteen  years  of  age,  Mr.  Spencer 
one  day  sent  for  him  into  his  closet ;  and  as  he  was  folding 
up  a  letter  which  he  had  been  writing,  said  to  him,  with  a 
very  kind  look,  but  in  a  graver  tone  than  usual,  "  Franklin, 
you  are  now  going  to  leave  me."  —  "Sir!"  said  Franklin. 
"  You  are  now  going  to  leave  me,  and  to  begin  the  world 
for  yourself.     You  will  carry  this  letter  to  my  sister,  Mrs. 

(60) 


THE     FALSE     KEY.  61 

Churchill,  in  Queen's-square.  You  know  Queen's-square  ?" 
Franklin  bowed.  "  You  must  expect,"  continued  Mr.  Spen- 
cer, "  to  meet  with  several  disagreeable  things,  and  a  great 
deal  of  rough  work,  at  your  first  setting  out ;  but  be  faithful 
and  obedient  to  your  mistress  and  obliging  to  your  fellow- 
servants,  and  all  will  go  well.  Mrs.  Churchill  will  make 
you  a  very  good  mistress,  if  you  behave  properly,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  but  you  will."  —  "  Thank  you,  sir."  —  "  And  you 
will  always  (I  mean  as  long  as  you  deserve  it)  find  a  friend 
in  me."  —  "  Thank  you,  sir  —  I  am  sure  you  are — "  There 
Franklin  stopped  short,  for  the  recollection  of  all  Mr.  Spen- 
cer's goodness  rushed  upon  him  at  once,  and  he  could  not 
say  another  word.  "  Bring  me  a  candle  to  seal  this  letter," 
said  his  master ;  and  he  was  very  glad  to  get  out  of  the 
room.  He  came  back  with  the  candle,  and  with  a  stout 
heart  stood  by  while  the  letter  was  sealing ;  and  when  his 
master  put  it  into  his  hand,  said,  in  a  cheerful  voice,  "  I 
hope  you  will  let  me  see  you  again,  sir,  sometimes."  — 
"  Certainly :  whenever  your  mistress  can  spare  you,  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to  see  you ;  and  remember,  if  you  ever  get  into 
any  difficulty,  do  n't  be  afraid  to  come  to  me.  I  have  some- 
times spoken  harshly  to  you,  but  you  will  not  meet  with  a 
more  indulgent  friend."  Franklin  at  this  turned  away  with 
a.  full  heart ;  and,  after  making  two  or  three  attempts  to 
express  his  gratitude,  left  the  room  without  being  able  to 
speak. 

He  got  to  Queen's-square  about  three  o'clock.  The  door 
was  opened  by  a  large  red-faced  man  in  a  blue  coat  and 
scarlet  waistcoat,  to  whom  he  felt  afraid  to  give  hislmessage 
lest  he  should  not  be  a  servant.  "  Well,  what's  your  busi- 
ness, sir  ?"  said  the  butler.  "  I  have  a  letter  for  Mrs. 
Churchill,  sir*  said  Franklin,  endeavouring  to  pronounce 
his  sir  in  a  tone  as  respectful  as  the  butlers  was  insolent. 
The  man,  having  examined  the  direction,  seal,  and  edges 
of  the  letter,  carried  it  up-stairs,  and  in  a  few  minutes  re- 
turned, and  ordered  Franklin  to  rut  his  shoes  well  and  fol- 


62  THE     FALSE     KEY. 

low  him.  He  was  then  shown  into  a  handsome  room, 
where  he  found  his  mistress,  an  elderly  lady.  She  asked 
him  a  few  questions,  examining  him  attentively  as  she 
spoke ;  and  her  severe  eye  at  first,  and  her  gracious  smile 
afterward,  made  him  feel  that  she  was  a  person  to  be  both 
loved  and  feared.  "  I  shall  give  you  in  charge,"  said  she, 
ringing  a  bell,  "  to  my  housekeeper,  and  I  hope  she  will 
nave  no  reason  to  be  displeased  with  you," 

The  housekeeper,  when  she  first  came  in,  appeared  with 
a  smiling  countenance ;  but  the  moment  she  cast  her  eyea 
on  Franklin,  it  changed  to  a  look  of  surprise  and  suspicion. 
Her  mistress  recommended  him  to  her  protection,  saying, 
"  Pomfret,  I  hope  you  will  keep  this  boy  under  your  own 
eye."  And  she  received  him  with  a  cold  "Very  well, 
ma'am,"  which  plainly  showed  she  was  not  disposed  to  like 
him.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Pomfret  was  a  woman  so  fond  of  power, 
and  so  jealous  of  favour,  that  she  would  have  quarrelled 
with  an  angel  who  had  gotten  so  near  her  mistress  without 
her  introduction.  She  smothered  her  displeasure,  however, 
till  night ;  when,  as  she  attended  her  mistress's  toilet,  she 
could  not  refrain  from  expressing  her  sentiments.  She 
began  cautiously :  "  Ma'am,  is  not  this  the  boy  Mr.  Spencer 
was  talking  of  one  day  —  that  had  been  brought  up  by  the 
Villaintropic  Society,  I  think  they  call  it?"  —  "Philanthro- 
pic Society ;  yes,  and  my  brother  gives  him  a  high  charac- 
ter ;  I  hope  he  will  do  very  well."  —  "  I  'm  sure  I  hope  so 
too  ;  but  I  can't  say :  fc  r  my  part,  I  've  no  great  notion  of 
those  low  people.  They  say  all  those  children  are  taken 
from  the  very  lowest  drugs  and  refugees  of  the  town ;  and 
surely  they  're  like  enough,  ma'am,  to  take  after  their  own 
fathers  and  mothers."  —  "  But  they  are  not  suffered  to  be 
with  their  parents,  and  therefore  cannot  be  hurt  by  their 
example.  This  little  boy,  to  be  sure,  was  unfortunate  in 
his  father,  but  he  has  had  an  excellent  education."  —  "Oh, 
edication!  to  be  sure,  ma'am,  I  know  —  I  don't  say  but 
what  edication  is  a  great  thing.    But  then,  ma'am,  edication 


THE    FALSE     KEY.  63 

can't  change  the  natur  that's  in  one,  they  say;  and  one 
that 's  born  naturally  bad  and  low,  they  say,  all  the  edication 
in  the  world  won't  do  no  good;  and  for  my  part,  ma'am, 
I  know  you  knows  best,  but  I  should  be  afraid  to  let 
any  of  those  Villaintropic  folks  get  into  my  house,  for 
nobody  can  tell  the  natur  of  them  beforehand :  I  declare  it 
frights  me."  —  "  Pomfret,  I  thought  you  had  better  sense  ! 
how  could  this  poor  boy  earn  his  bread  ?  he  would  be  forced 
to  starve  or  steal,  if  everybody  had  such  prejudices."  Pom- 
fret,  who  really  was  a  good  woman,  was  softened  at  this 
idea,  and  said,  "  God  forbid  he  should  starve  or  steal ;  and 
God  forbid  I  should  say  anything  prejudiciary  of  the  boy, 
for  there  may  be  no  harm  in  him."  —  "  Well,"  said  Mrs. 
Churchill,  changing  her  tone,  "  but,  Pomfret,  if  we  do  n't 
like  the  boy  at  the  end  of  a  month,  we  have  done  with  him  ; 
for  I  have  only  promised  Mr.  Spencer  to  keep  him  a  month 
upon  trial ;  there  is  no  harm  done."  —  "  Dear,  no,  ma'am, 
to  be  sure  ;  and  cook  must  put  up  with  her  disappointment, 
that's  all."  — "What  disappointment?"  — "About  her 
nephew,  ma'am ;  the  boy  she  and  I  was  speaking  to  you 
Tor."  —  "  When  ?"  —  "  The  day  you  called  her  up  about  the 
almond-pudding,  ma'am ;  if  you  remember,  you  said  you 
shall  have  no  objections  to  try  the  boy ;  and  upon  that,  cook 
bought  him  new  shirts  ;  but  they  're  safe,  as  I  tell  her."  — 
"But  I  did  not  promise  to  take  her  nephew."  —  "  Oh,  no, 
ma'am,  not  at  all :  she  does  not  think  to  say  that,  else  I 
should  be  very  angry  ;  but  the  poor  woman  never  let  fall  a 
word,  any  more  than  frets  that  the  boy  should  miss  such  a 
good  place." — "  Well,  but  since  I  did  say  that  I  should  have 
no  objection  to  try  him,  I  shall  keep  my  word.  Let  him 
come  to-morrow ;  let  them  both  have  a  fair  trial,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  month  I  can  decide  whi  3I1 1  like  best,  and  which 
wo  had  better  keep." 

Dismissed  with  these  orders,  Mrs.  Pomfret  hastened  to 
report  all  that  had  passed  to  the  cook,  like  a  favourite  min- 
ister, proud  to  display  the  extent  of  her  secret  irfluence.   In 


64  THE    FALSE     KEY. 

the  morning  Felix,  the  cook's  nephew,  arrived;  and  the 
moment  he  came  into  the  kitchen,  every  eye,  even  the  scul- 
lion's, was  fixed  upon  him  with  approbation,  and  afterward 
glanced  upon  Franklin  with  contempt  —  contempt  which 
Franklin  could  not  endure  without  some  confusion,  though 
quite  unconscious  of  having  deserved  it ;  nor  upon  the  most 
impartial  and  cool  self-examination  could  he  comprehend 
the  justice  of  his  judges.  He  perceived,  indeed,  for  the 
comparisons  were  minutely  made  in  audible  and  scornful 
whispers,  that  Felix  was  a  much  handsomer,  or,  as  the 
kitchen-maid  expressed  it,  a  much  more  genteeler,  gentle- 
manly-looking like  sort  of  a  person  than  he  was ;  and  he 
was  made  to  understand  that  he  wanted  a  frill  to  his  shirt, 
a  cravat,  a  pair  of  thin  shoes,  and  above  all,  shoe-strings, 
besides  other  nameless  advantages,  which  justly  made  his 
rival  the  admiration  of  the  kitchen.  However,  upon  calling 
to  mind  all  that  his  friend  Mr.  Spencer  had  ever  said  to  him, 
he  could  not  recollect  his  having  warned  him  that  shoe- 
strings were  indispensable  requisites  to  the  character  of  a 
good  servant ;  so  that  he  could  only  comfort  himself  with 
resolving,  if  possible,  to  make  amends  for  these  deficiencies, 
and  to  dissipate  the  prejudices  which  he  saw  were  formed 
against  him,  by  the  strictest  adherence  to  all  that  his  tutor 
had  taught  him  to  be  his  duty.  He  hoped  to  secure  the  ap- 
probation of  his  mistress  by  scrupulous  obedience  to  all  her 
commands,  and  faithful  care  of  all  that  belonged  to  her ;  at 
the  same  time  he  flattered  himself  he  should  win  the  good- 
will of  his  fellow-servants,  by  showing  a  constant  desire  to 
oblige  them.  He  pursued  this  plan  of  conduct  steadily  for 
nearly  three  weeks,  and  found  that  he  succeeded  beyond  his 
expectations  in  pleasing  his  mistress  ;  but  unfortunately  he 
found  it  more  difficult  to  please  his  fellow-servants,  and  he  ■ 
sometimes  offended  when  he  least  expected  it. 

He  had  made  great  progress  in  the  affections  of  Cork- 
screw the  butler,  by  working  very  hard  for  him,  and  doing 
every  day  at  least  half  his  business.     But  one  unfortunate 


THE     FALSE     KEY.  65 

night  the  butler  was  gone  out  —  the  bell  rang  —  he  went  up- 
stairs ;  and  his  mistress  asking  where  Corkscrew  was,  he 
answered  that  he  was  gone  out.  "Where  to?"  said  hia 
mistress.  "I  don't  know,"  answered  Franklin.  And  as 
he  had  told  exactly  the  truth,  and  meant  to  do  no  harm, 
he  was  surprised,  at  the  butler's  return,  when  he  repeated 
to  him  what  had  passed,  to  receive  a  sudden  box  on  the  ear, 
and  the  appellation  of  a  mischievous,  impertinent,  mean- 
spirited  brat !  "  Mischievous,  impertinent,  mean  \"  repeated 
Franklin  to  himself;  but  looking  in  the  butler's  face,  which 
was  of  a  deeper  scarlet  than  usual,  he  judged  that  he  was 
far  from  sober,  and  did  not  doubt  but  that  the  next  morning, 
when  he  came  to  the  use  of  his  reason,  he  would  be  sensible 
of  his  injustice,  and  apologize  for  this  box  of  the  ear. 
But  no  apology  coming  all  day,  Franklin  at  last  ventured  to 
request  an  explanation,  or  rather  to  ask  what  he  had  best 
do  on  the  next  occasion.  "Why,"  said  Corkscrew,  "when 
mistress  asked  for  me,  how  came  you  to  say  I  was  gone  out  ?" 
— "  Because,  you  know,  I  saw  you  go  out." — "  And  when  she 
asked  you  where  I  was  gone,  how  came  you  to  say  that  you 
did  not  know?"  —  "Because  indeed  I  did  not  know."  — 
"  You  are  a  stupid  blockhead :  could  not  you  say  I  was  gone 
to  the  washerwoman's  ?"  —  "  But  were  you  ?"  said  Franklin. 
"  Was  I !"  cried  Corkscrew,  and  looked  as  if  he  would  have 
struck  him  again ;  "  how  dare  you  give  me  the  lie  ?  —  Mr. 
Hypocrite,  you  would  be  ready  enough,  I'll  be  bound,  to 
make  excuses  for  yourself.  —  Why  are  not  mistress's  clogs 
cleaned  ?  go  along  and  blacken  'em  this  minute,  and  send 
Felix  to  me." 

From  this  time  forward  Felix  alone  was  privileged  to 
enter  the  butler's  pantry.  Felix  became  the  favourite  of 
Corkscrew ;  and  though  Franklin  by  no  means  sought  to 
pry  into  the  mysteries  ot  their  private  conferences,  nor  ever 
entered  without  knocking  at  the  door,  yet  it  was  his  fate 
once  to  be  sent  on  a  message  at  an  unlucky  time ;  and  as 
the  door  was  half-open,  he  could  not  avoid  seeing  Felix 
5 


66  THE     FALSE     KEY. 

drinking  a  bumper  of  red  liquor,  which  he  could  not  help 
suspecting  to  be  wine ;  atd  as  the  decanter,  which  usually 
went  up-stairs  after  dinner,  was  at  this  time  in  the  butler's 
grasp  without  any  stopper  in  it,  he  was  involuntarily  forced 
to  suspect  they  were  drinking  his  mistress's  wine. 

Nor  were  the  bumpers  of  port  the  only  unlawful  rewards 
which  Felix  received ;  his  aunt  the  cook  had  occasion  for 
his  assistance,  and  she  had  many  delicious  douceurs  in  her 
gift.  Many  a  handful  of  currants,  many  a  half-custard, 
many  a  triangular  remnant  of  pie,  besides  the  choice  of  his 
own  meal  at  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  fell  to  the  share 
of  the  favourite  Felix ;  while  Franklin  was  neglected,  though 
he  took  the  pains  to  please  the  cook  in  all  honourable  ser- 
vice, and,  when  she  was  hot,  angry,  or  hurried,  he  was  al- 
ways at  hand  to  help  her ;  and  in  the  hour  of  adversity, 
when  the  clock  struck  five,  and  no  dinner  was  dished,  and 
no  kitchen-maid  with  twenty  pair  of  hands  was  to  be  had, 
Franklin  would  answer  to  her  call,  with  flowers  to  garnish 
her  dishes,  and  presence  of  mind  to  know,  in  the  midst  of 
the  commotion,  where  everything  that  was  wanting  was  to 
be  found  ;  so  that,  quick  as  lightning,  all  difficulties  vanished 
before  him.  Yet,  when  the  danger  was  over  and  the  hour 
of  adversity  passed,  the  ungrateful  cook  would  forget  her 
benefactor,  and  when  it  came  to  be  supper-time,  would  throw 
him,  with  a  carelessness  that  touched  him  sensibly,  any- 
thing which  the  other  servants  were  too  nice  to  eat.  All 
this  Franklin  bore  with  fortitude,  nor  did  he  envy  Felix  the 
dainties  which  he  ate  sometimes  close  beside  him :  "  For," 
said  he  to  himself,  "  I  have  a  clear  conscience,  and  that  is 
more  than  Felix  can  have.  I  know  how  he  wins  cook's  fa- 
vour too  well,  and  I  fancy  I  know  how  I  have  offended  her ; 
for  since  the  day  I  saw  the  basket,  she  has  done  nothing  but 
huff  me." 

The  history  of  the  basket  was  this :  Mrs.  Pomfret,  the  house- 
keeper, had  several  times,  directly  or  indirectly,  given  the 
world  below  to  understand  that  she  and  her  mistress  thought 


THE     FALSE     KEY.  67 

there  was  a  prodigious  quantity  of  meat  eaten  of  late.  Now 
when  she  spoke  it  was  usually  at  dinner-time  ;  she  always 
looked,  or  Franklin  imagined  that  she  looked,  suspiciously 
at  him.  Other  people  looked  still  more  maliciously  ;  but  as 
he  felt  himself  perfectly  innocent,  he  went  on  eating  his 
dinner  in  silence.  But  at  length  it  was  time  to  explain. 
One  Sunday  there  appeared  a  handsome  sirloin  of  beef, 
which  before  noon  on  Monday  had  shrunk  almost  to  the 
bare  bone,  and  presented  such  a  deplorable  spectacle  to  the 
opening  eyes  of  Mrs.  Pomfret,  that  her  long  smothered  in- 
dignation burst  forth,  and  she  boldly  declared  she  was  now 
certain  there  was  foul  play,  and  she  would  have  the  beef 
found,  or  she  would  know  why.  She  spoke,  but  no  beef 
appeared :  till  Franklin,  with  a  look  of  sudden  recollection, 
cried,  "  Did  not  I  see  something  like  a  piece  of  beef  in  a 
basket  in  the  dairy  —  I  think — "  The  cook,  as  if  somebody 
had  smote  her  a  deadly  blow,  grew  pale  ;  but  suddenly  re- 
covering the  use  of  her  speech,  turned  upon  Franklin,  and 
with  a  voice  of  thunder  gave  him  the  lie  direct ;  and  forth- 
with taking  Mrs.  Pomfret  by  the  ruffle,  led  the  way  to  the 
dairy,  declaring  she  could  defy  the  world,  "  that  she  could, 
and  so  she  would."  —  "  There,  ma'am,"  said  she,  kicking 
an  empty  basket  which  lay  on  the  floor,  "  there 's  malice  for 
you  —  ask  him  why  he  don't  show  you  the  beef  in  the  bas- 
ket." —  "I  thought  I  saw — "  poor  Franklin  began.  "  You 
thought  you  saw !"  cried  the  cook,  coming  close  to  him  with 
kimboed  arms,  and  looking  like  a  dragon;  "and  pray,  sir, 
what  business  have  such  a  one  as  you  to  think  you  see  ?  — 
And  pray,  ma'am,  will  you  be  pleased  to  speak  —  perhaps, 
ma'am,  he  '11  condescend  to  obey  you  —  ma'am,  will  you  be 
pleased  to  forbid  him  my  dairy  —  for  here  he  comes  prying 
and  spying  about  —  and  how,  ma'am,  am  I  to  answer  for 
my  butter  and  cream,  or  anything  at  all  ?  —  I  'm  sure  it 's 
what  I  can't  pretend  to,  unless  you  do  me  the  justice  to  for- 
bid him  my  place. 
Mrs.  Pomfret,  whose  eyes  were  blinded  by  her  prejudices 


68  THE     FALSE     KEY. 

against  the  folks  of  the  Villaintropic  Society,  and  also  by 
the  secret  jealousy  of  a  boy  whom  she  deemed  to  be  grow- 
ing a  favourite  of  her  mistress's,  took  part  with  the  cook, 
and  ended  as  she  began,  with  a  firm  persuasion  that  Frank- 
lin was  the  guilty  person.  "  Let  him  alone,  let  him  alone  Vf 
said  she  ;  "  he  has  as  many  turns  and  windings  as  a  hare ; 
but  we  shall  catch  him  yet,  I  '11  be  bound,  in  some  of  his 
doublings.  I  knew  the  nature  of  him  well  enough,  from 
the  first  time  I  ever  set  my  eyes  upon  him :  but  mistress 
shall  have  her  own  way,  and  see  the  end  of  it."  These 
words,  and  the  bitter  sense  of  injustice,  drew  tears  at  length 
fast  down  the  proud  cheek  of  Franklin,  which  might  possi- 
bly have  touched  Mrs.  Pomfret,  if  Felix,  with  a  sneer,  had 
not  called  them  crocodile  tears.  "  Felix  too  \"  thought  he, 
"  this  is  too  much  I"  In  fact,  Felix  had  till  now  professed 
himself  his  firm  ally,  and  had  on  his  part  received  from 
Franklin  unequivocal  proofs  of  friendship ;  for  it  must  be 
told,  that  every  other  morning,  when  it  was  Felix's  turn  to 
get  breakfast,  Felix  never  was  up  in  decent  time,  and  must 
inevitably  have  come  to  public  disgrace,  if  Franklin  had 
not  gotten  all  the  breakfast-things  ready  for  him,  the  bread- 
and-butter  spread,  and  the  toast  toasted  ;  and  had  not,  more- 
over, regularly,  when  the  clock  struck  eight,  and  Mrs.  Pom- 
fret's  foot  was  heard  overhead,  run  to  call  the  sleeping 
Felix,  and  helped  him  constantly  through  the  hurry  of  get- 
ting dressed  one  instant  before  the  housekeeper  came  down- 
stairs. All  this  could  not  but  be  present  to  his  memory ; 
but,  scorning  to  reproach  him,  Franklin  wiped  away  his 
crocodile  tears,  and  preserved  a  magnanimous  silence. 

The  hour  of  retribution  was,  however,  not  so  far  off  as 
Felix  imagined.  Cunning  people  may  go  on  cleverly  in 
their  devices  for  some  time  ;  but  though  they  may  escape 
once,  twice,  perhaps  ninety-nine  times,  what  does  that  sig- 
nify ?  for  the  hundredth  they  come  to  shame  and  lose  all 
their  character.  Grown  bold  by  frequent  success,  Felix 
became  more  careless  in  his  operations ;  and  it  happened 


THE    FALSE     KEY.  69 

that  one  day  he  met  his  mistress  full  in  the  passage*  as  he  was 
going  on  one  of  the  cook's  secret  errands :  "  Where  are  you 
going,  Felix?"  said  his  mistress.  "  To  the  washerwoman's, 
ma'am,"  answered  he,  with  his  usual  effrontery.  "  Very 
well,"  said  she  ;  "  call  at  the  booksellers  in — stay,  I  must 
write  down  the  direction.  Pomfret,"  said  she,  opening  the 
housekeeper's  room  door,  "  have  you  a  bit  of  paper  ?"  Pom- 
fret  came  with  the  writing-paper,  and  looked  very  angry  to 
see  that  Felix  was  going  out  without  her  knowledge ;  so, 
while  Mrs.  Churchill  was  writing  the  direction,  she  stood 
talking  to  him  about  it ;  while  he,  in  the  greatest  terror 
imaginable,  looked  up  in  her  face  as  she  spoke,  but  was  all 
the  time  intent  upon  parrying  on  the  other  side  the  attacks 
of  a  little  French  dog  of  his  mistress's,  which,  unluckily  for 
him,  had  followed  her  into  the  passage.  Manchon  was  ex- 
tremely fond  of  Felix,  who,  by  way  of  pleasing  his  mistress, 
had  paid  most  assiduous  court  to  her  dog;  yet  now  his  ca- 
resses were  rather  troublesome.  Manchon  leaped  up,  and 
was  not  to  be  rebuffed.  "  Poor  fellow !  poor  fellow !  down ! 
down !  poor  fellow !"  cried  Felix,  and  put  him  away.  But 
Manchon  leaped  up  again,  and  began  smelling  near  the  fatal 
pocket  in  a  most  alarming  manner.  "  You  will  see  by  this 
direction  where  you  are  to  go,"  said  his  mistress.  "  Man- 
chon, come  here ;  and  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  bring  me  — 
down !  down !  Manchon,  be  quiet !"  But  Manchon  knew 
better ;  he  had  now  gotten  his  head  into  Felix's  pocket,  and 
would  not  be  quiet  till  he  had  drawn  thence,  rustling  out  of 
its  brown  paper,  half  a  cold  turkey,  which  had  been  missing 
since  morning.  "  My  cold  turkey,  as  I  'm  alive  !"  exclaimed 
the  housekeeper,  darting  upon  it  with  horror  and  amaze- 
ment. "  What  is  all  this  ?"  said  Mrs.  Churchill,  in  a  com- 
posed voice.  "  I  do  n't  know,  ma'am,"  answered  Felix,  so 
confused  that  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  "but — "  "But 
what?"  cried  Mrs.  Pomfret,  indignation  flashing  from  her 
eyes.  "  But  what  ?"  repeated  his  mistress,  waiting  for  his 
reply  with  a  calm  air  of  attention  which  still  more  discon- 


70  THE     FALSE     KEY. 

certed  Felix ;  for  though  with  an  angry  person  he  might 
have  some  chance  of  escape,  he  knew  that  he  could  not  in- 
vent any  excuse  in  such  circumstances  which  could  stand 
the  examination  of  a  person  in  her  sober  senses.  He  was 
struck  dumb.  "  Speak,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill,  in  a  still 
lower  tone ;  "  I  am  ready  to  hear  all  you  have  to  say :  in 
my  house  everybody  shall  have  justice ;  speak !  But 
what?"  —  "But,"  stammered  Felix;  and,  after  in  vain  at- 
tempting to  equivocate,  confessed  that  he  was  going  to  take 
the  turkey  to  his  cousin's :  but  he  threw  all  the  blame  upon 
his  aunt  the  cook,  who,  he  said,  had  ordered  him  upon  this 
expedition.  The  cook  was  now  summoned  ;  but  she  totally 
denied  all  knowledge  of  the  affair,  with  the  same  violence 
with  which  she  had  lately  confounded  Franklin  about  the 
beef  in  the  basket ;  not  entirely,  however,  with  the  same 
success  ;  for  Felix,  perceiving  by  his  mistress's  eye  that  she 
was  upon  the  point  of  desiring  him  to  leave  the  house  im- 
mediately, and  not  being  very  willing  to  leave  a  place  in 
which  he  had  lived  so  well  with  the  butler,  did  not  hesitate 
to  confront  his  aunt  with  assurance  equal  to  her  own.  He 
knew  how  to  bring  his  charge  home  to  her.  He  produced 
a  note  in  her  own  handwriting,  the  purport  of  which  was 
to  request  her  cousin's  acceptance  of  "  some  delicate  cold 
turkey,"  and  to  beg  she  woula  send  her,  by  the  return  of  the 
bearer,  a  little  of  her  cherry-brandy. 

Mrs.  Churchill  coolly  wrote  upon  the  back  of  the  note 
her  cook's  discharge,  and  informed  Felix  that  she  had  no 
further  occasion  for  his  services :  but,  upon  his  pleading 
with  many  tears,  which  Franklin  did  not  call  crocodile  tears, 
that  he  was  so  young,  and  that  he  was  under  the  dominion 
of  his  aunt,  he  touched  Mrs.  Pomfret's  compassion,  and  she 
obtained  for  him  permission  to  stay  till  the  end  of  the 
month,  to  give  him  yet  a  chance  of  redeeming  his  character. 

Mrs.  Pomfret,  now  seeing  how  far  she  had  been  impose'! 
upon,  resolved  for  the  future  to  be  more  upon  her  guard 
*  ith  Felix,  and  felt  that  she  had  treated  Franklin  with  great 


THE    FALSE     KEY.  71 

injustice,  when  she  accused  him  of  malpractices  about  the 
sirloin  of  beef.  Good  people,  when  they  are  made  seLsible 
that  they  have  treated  any  one  with  injustice,  are  impatient 
to  have  an  opportunity  to  rectify  their  mistake ;  and  Mrs. 
Pomfret  was  now  prepared  to  see  everything  which  Franklin 
did  in  the  most  favourable  point  of  view,  especially  as  the 
next  day  discovered  that  it  was  he  who  every  morning  boiled 
the  water  for  her  tea,  and  buttered  her  toast  —  services  for 
which  she  had  always  thought  she  was  indebted  to  Felix. 
Besides,  she  had  rated  Felix's  abilities  very  highly,  because 
he  made  up  her  weekly  accounts  for  her ;  but,  unluckily, 
once,  when  Franklin  was  out  of  the  way,  and  she  brought 
a  bill  in  a  hurry  to  her  favourite  to  cast  up,  she  discovered 
that  he  did  not  know  how  to  cast  up  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence,  and  he  was  obliged  to  confess  that  he  must  wait  till 
Franklin  came  home. 

But,  passing  over  a  number  of  small  incidents,  which 
gradually  unfolded  the  character  of  the  two  boys,  we  must 
proceed  to  a  more  serious  affair. 

Corkscrew  frequently,  after  he  had  finished  taking  away 
?upper,  and  after  the  housekeeper  was  gone  to  bed,  sallied 
forth  to  a  neighbouring  alehouse  to  drink  with  his  friends. 
The  alehouse  was  kept  by  that  cousin  of  Felix's  who  was 
bo  fond  of  "  delicate  cold  turkey,"  and  who  had  such  choice 
cherry-brandy.  Corkscrew  kept  the  key  of  the  house  door, 
so  he  could  return  home  at  what  hour  he  thought  proper ;  and 
if  he  should  by  accident  be  called  for  by  his  mistress  after 
supper,  Felix  knew  where  to  find  him,  and  did  not  scruple 
to  make  any  of  those  excuses  which  poor  Franklin  had  too 
much  integrity  to  use.  All  these  precautions  taken,  the 
butler  was  at  liberty  to  indulge  his  favourite  passion,  which 
so  increased  with  indulgence,  that  his  wages  were  by  no 
means  sufficient  to  support  him  in  his  way  of  life.  Every 
day  he  felt  less  resolution  to  break  through  his  bad  habits, 
for  every  day  drinking  became  more  necessary  to  him.  His 
health  was  ruined.   With  a  red,  pimpled,  bloated  face,  ema- 


72  THE     FALSE     KEY. 

ciated  legs,  and  a  swelled,  diseased  body,  he  appeared  the 
victim  of  intoxication.  In  the  morning  when  he  got  up,  his 
hands  trembled,  his  spirits  flagged,  he  could  do  nothing  till 
he  had  taken  a  dram ;  an  operation  which  he  was  obliged 
to  repeat  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  day,  as  all  those 
wretched  people  must  who  once  acquire  this  custom. 

He  had  run  up  a  long  bill  at  the  alehouse  which  he  fro 
quented ;  and  the  landlord,  who  grew  urgent  for  his  money, 
refused  to  give  him  further  credit.  One  night,  when  Cork- 
screw had  drunk  enough  only  to  make  him  fretful,  he  leaned 
with  his  elbow  surlily  upon  the  table,  began  to  quarrel  with 
the  landlord,  and  swore  that  he  had  not  of  late  treated  him 
like  a  gentleman.  To  which  the  landlord  coolly  replied, 
"  That  as  long  as  he  had  paid  like  a  gentleman,  he  had  been 
treated  like  one,  and  that  was  as  much  as  any  one  could 
expect,  or,  at  any  rate,  as  much  as  any  one  would  meet  with 
in  this  world."  For  the  truth  of  this  assertion  he  appealed, 
laughing,  to  a  party  of  men  who  were  drinking  in  the  room. 
The  men,  however,  took  part  with  Corkscrew,  and  drawing 
him  over  to  their  table,  made  him  sit  down  with  them. 
They  were  in  high  good-humour,  and  the  butler  soon  grew 
so  intimate  with  them,  that,  in  the  openness  of  his  heart,  he 
soon  communicated  to  them,  not  only  all  his  own  affairs, 
but  all  that  he  knew,  and  more  than  all  that  he  knew  of  his 
mistress's. 

His  new  friends  were  by  no  means  uninterested  in  his 
conversation,  and  encouraged  him  as  much  as  possible  to 
talk  ;  for  they  had  secret  views,  which  the  butler  was  by  no 
means  sufficiently  sober  to  discover.  Mrs.  Churchill  had 
some  fine  old  family  plate ;  and  these  men  belonged  to  a 
gang  of  house-breakers.  Before  they  parted  with  Corkscrew, 
they  engaged  him  to  meet  thorn  again  the  next  night ;  their 
intimacy  was  still  more  closely  cemented.  One  of  the  men 
actually  offered  to  lend  Corkscrew  three  guineas  towards  the 
payment  of  his  debt,  and  hinted  that,  if  he  thought  proper, 
he  could  easily  get  the  whole  cleared  off.    Upon  this  hint* 


THE    FALSE     KEY.  73 

Corkscrew  became  all  attention,  till,  after  some  hesitation 
on  their  part,  and  repeated  promises  of  secrecy  on  his,  they 
at  length  disclosed  their  plans  to  him.  They  gave  him  to 
understand,  that  if  he  would  assist  in  letting  them  into  his 
mistress's  house,  they  would  let  him  have  an  ample  share 
in  the  booty.  The  butler,  who  had  the  reputation  of  being 
an  honest  man,  and  indeed  whose  integrity  had  hitherto 
been  proof  against  everything  but  his  mistress's  port,  turned 
pale,  and  trembled  at  this  proposal ;  drank  two  or  three 
bumpers  to  drown  thought ;  and  promised  to  give  an  answer 
the  next  day. 

He  went  home  more  than  half-intoxicated.  His  mind 
was  so  full  of  what  had  passed,  that  he  could  not  help 
bragging  to  Felix,  whom  he  found  awake  at  his  return,  that 
he  could  have  his  bill  paid  off  at  the  alehouse  whenever  he 
pleased ;  dropping  besides  some  hints,  which  were  not  lost 
upon  Felix.  In  the  morning  Felix  reminded  him  of  the 
things  which  he  had  said ;  and  Corkscrew,  alarmed,  endea- 
voured to  evade  his  questions,  by  saying  that  he  was  not  in 
his  senses  when  he  talked  in  that  manner.  Nothing,  how- 
ever, that  he  could  urge  made  any  impression  upon  Felix, 
whose  recollection  on  the  subject  was  perfectly  distinct,  and 
who  had  too  much  cunning  himself,  and  too  little  confidence 
in  his  companion,  to  be  the  dupe  of  his  dissimulation.  The 
butler  knew  not  what  do  when  he  saw  that  Felix  was  abso- 
lutely determined  either  to  betray  their  scheme  or  to  become 
a  sharer  in  their  booty. 

The  night  came  on,  and  he  was  now  to  make  a  final  deci- 
sion, either  to  determine  on  breaking  off  entirely  with  his 
new  acquaintance,  or  taking  Felix  with  him  to  join  the  plot. 

His  debt,  his  love  of  drinking,  the  impossibility  of  in- 
dulging it  without  a  fresh  supply  of  money,  all  came  into 
his  mind  at  once,  and  conquered  his  remaining  scruples. 
It  is  said  by  those  whose  fatal  experience  give  them  a  right 
to  be  believed,  that  a  drunkard  will  sacrifice  everything 
sooner  than  the  pleasure  of  habitual  intoxication. 


74  THE     FALSE     KEY. 

How  much  easier  is  it  never  to  begin  a  bad  custom,  than 
to  break  through  it  when  once  formed ! 

The  hour  of  rendezvous  came,  and  Corkscrew  went  tc  the 
alehouse,  where  he  found  the  housebreakers  waiting  for 
him,  and  a  glass  of  brandy  ready  poured  out.  He  sighed 
—  drank  —  hesitated  —  drank  again  —  heard  the  landlord 
talk  of  his  bill — saw  the  money  produced,  which  would 
pay  it  in  a  moment  —  drank  again  —  cursed  himself,  and 
giving  his  hand  to  the  villain  who  was  whispering  in  his 
ear,  swore  that  he  could  not  help  it,  and  must  do  as  they 
would  have  him.  They  required  of  him  to  give  up  the  key 
of  the  house-door,  that  they  might  get  another  made  by  it. 
He  had  left  it  with  Felix,  and  was  now  obliged  to  explain 
the  new  difficulty  which  had  arisen.  Felix  knew  enough  to 
ruin  them,  and  must  therefore  be  won  over.  This  was  no 
very  difficult  task ;  he  had  a  strong  desire  to  have  some 
worked  cravats,  and  the  butler  knew  enough  of  him  to  be- 
lieve that  this  would  be  a  sufficient  bribe.  The  cravats 
were  bought  and  shown  to  Felix.  He  thought  them  the 
only  things  that  were  wanting  to  make  him  a  complete  fine 
gentleman ;  and  to  go  without  them,  especially  when  he  had 
once  seen  himself  in  the  glass  with  one  tied  on  in  a  splendid 
bow,  appeared  impossible.  Even  this  paltry  temptation, 
working  upon  his  vanity,  at  length  prevailed  with  a  boy 
whose  integrity  had  long  been  corrupted  by  the  habits  of 
petty  pilfering  and  daily  falsehood.  It  was  agreed  that,  the 
first  time  his  mistress  sent  him  out  on  a  message,  he  should 
carry  the  key  of  the  house-door  to  his  cousin's,  and  deliver 
it  into  the  hands  of  one  of  the  gang,  who  were  there  in 
waiting  for  it.  Such  was  the  scheme.  Felix,  the  night 
after  all  this  had  been  planned,  went  to  bed,  and  fell  fast 
isleep  ;  but  the  butler,  who  had  not  yet  stifled  the  voice  of 
conscience  felt,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  so  insupportably 
•niserable,  that,  instead  of  going  to  rest,  he  stole  softly  into 
lhe  pantry  for  a  bottle  of  his  mistress's  wine,  and  there, 
Irinking  glass  after  glass,  he  staid  till  he  became  so  far  in- 


THE     FALSE     KEY,  75 

toxicated,  that,  though  he  contrived  to  find  his  way  back  to 
bed,  he  could  by  no  means  undress  himself.  Without  any 
power  of  recollection,  he  flung  himself  upon  the  bed,  leav- 
ing his  candle  half-hanging  out  of  *he  candlestick  beside 
him.  Franklin  slept  in  the  next  room  to  him,  and  presently 
wakening,  thought  he  perceived  a  strong  smell  of  something 
burning.  He  jumped  up,  and  seeing  a  light  under  the  but- 
ler's door,  gently  opened  it,  and  to  his  astonishment  beheld 
one  of  the  bed-curtains  in  flames.  He  immediately  ran  to 
the  butler,  and  pulled  him  with  all  his  force  to  rouse  him 
from  his  lethargy.  He  came  to  his  senses  at  length,  but 
was  so  terrified  and  so  helpless,  that,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Franklin,  the  whole  house  would  scon  inevitably  have  been 
on  fire.  Felix,  trembling  and  cowardly,  knew  not  what  to 
do :  and  it  was  curious  to  see  him  obeying  Franklin,  whose 
turn  it  was  now  to  command.  Franklin  ran  up-stairs  to 
waken  Mrs.  Pomfret,  whose  terror  of  fire  was  so  great,  that 
she  came  from  her  room  almost  out  of  her  senses,  while  he, 
with  the  greatest  presence  of  mind,  recollected  where  he 
had  seen  two  large  tubs  of  water,  which  the  maids  had  pre- 
pared the  night  before  for  their  washing,  and,  seizing  the 
wet  linen  which  had  been  left  to  soak,  threw  it  upon  the 
flames.  He  exerted  himself  with  so  much  good  sense  that 
the  fire  was  presently  extinguished.  Everything  was  now 
once  more  safe  and  quiet.  Mrs.  Pomfret,  recovering  from 
her  fright,  postponed  all  inquiries  till  the  morning,  and 
rejoiced  that  her  mistress  had  not  been  awakened,  while 
Corkscrew  flattered  himself  that  he  should  be  able  to  con- 
ceal the  true  cause  of  the  accident.  "  Do  n't  you  tell  Mrs. 
Pomfret  where  you  found  the  candle  when  you  came  into 
the  room,"  said' he  to  Franklin.  "If  she  asks  me,  you 
know  I  must  tell  the  truth,"  replied  he.  "  Must !"  repeated 
Felix,  sneeringly ;  "  what,  you  must  be  a  tell-tale  !"  —  "  No, 
I  never  told  any  tales  of  anybody,  and  I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  get  any  one  into  a  scrape  ;  but  for  all  that  I  shall 
not  tell  a  lie,  either  for  myself  or  anybody  else,  let  you  call 


76  THE     FALSE     KEY. 

me  what  name  you  will."  — "  But  if  I  were  to  give  you 
Bomething  that  you  would  like,"  said  Corkscrew.  "  Some- 
thing that  I  know  you  would  like  !"  repeated  Felix.  "  No- 
thing you  can  give  me  will  do,"  answered  Franklin,  steadily ; 
"  so  it  is  useless  to  say  any  more  about  it  —  I  hope  I  shall 
not  he  questioned."  In  this  hope  he  was  mistaken ;  for  the 
first  thing  Mrs.  Pomfret  did  in  the  morning  was  to  com? 
into  the  butler's  room  to  examine  and  deplore  the  burnt 
curtains,  while  Corkscrew  stood  by  endeavouring  to  excul- 
pate himself  by  all  the  excuses  he  could  invent.  Mrs.  Pom- 
fret,  however,  though  sometimes  blinded  by  her  prejudices, 
was  no  fool,  and  it  was  absolutely  impossible  to  make  her 
believe  that  a  candle  which  had  been  left  on  the  hearth, 
where  Corkscrew  protested  he  had  left  it,  could  have  set 
curtains  on  fire  which  were  at  least  six  feet  distant.  Turn- 
ing short  round  to  Franklin,  she  desired  that  he  would  show 
her  where  he  found  the  candle  when  he  came  into  the  room. 
He  begged  not  to  be  questioned ;  but  she  insisted.  He  took 
up  the  candlestick ;  but  the  moment  the  housekeeper  cast 
her  eyes  upon  it,  she  snatched  it  from  his  hands.  "  How 
did  this  candlestick  come  here  ?  This  was  not  the  candle- 
stick you  found  here  last  night,"  cried  she.  "  Yes,  indeed 
it  was,"  answered  Franklin.  "  That  is  impossible !"  re- 
torted she,  vehemently,  "  for  I  left  this  candlestick  with  my 
own  hands  last  night  in  the  hall,  the  last  thing  I  did  after 
you,"  said  she,  turning  to  the  butler,  "  were  gone  to  bed — 
I  'm  sure  of  it.  Nay,  do  n't  you  recollect  my  taking  this 
japanned  candlestick  out  of  your  hand,  and  making  you  go 
up  to  bed  with  the  brass  one,  and  I  bolted  the  door  at  the 
stair-head  after  you  ?" 

This  was  all  very  true  ;  but  Corkscrew  had  afterward  gone 
down  from  his  room  by  a  back  stair-case,  unbolted  that  door, 
and  upon  his  return  from  the  alehouse  had  taken  the  ja- 
panned candlestick  by  mistake  up-stairs,  and  he  left  the 
brass  one  instead  upon  the  hall  table. 

"Oh,  ma'am,   said  Felix,  "indeed  yon  forget,  for  Mr. 


THL    FALSE    KEY.  77 

Corkscrew  came  into  my  room,  to  desire  me  to  call  him  be- 
times in  the  morning,  and  I  happened  to  take  particular 
notice,  and  he  had  the  japanned  candlestick  in  his  hand,  and 
that  was  just  as  I  heard  you  bolting  the  door  —  indeed, 
ma'am,  you  forget/'  —  "  Indeed,  sir,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pomfret, 
rising  in  anger,  "  I  do  not  forget ;  I  'm  not  come  to  be  super- 
amiuated  yet,  I  hope  —  how  dare  you  tell  me  I  forget  ?"  — 
"  Oh,  ma'am,"  cried  Felix,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not 
—  I  did  not  mean  to  say  you  forgot  —  but  only  I  thought, 
perhaps,  you  might  not  particularly  remember ;  for  if  you 
please  to  recollect — "  "I  won't  please  to  recollect  just 
whatever  you  please,  sir !  —  Hold  your  tongue  —  why  should 
you  poke  yourself  into  this  scrape  —  what  have  you  to  do 
with  it,  I  should  be  glad  to  know?"  —  "Nothing  in  the 
world,  oh,  nothing  in  the  world ;  I  'm  sure  I  beg  your  par- 
don, ma'am,"  answered  Felix  in  a  soft  tone  ;  and  sneaking 
off,  left  his  friend  Corkscrew  to  fight  his  own  battle,  secretly 
resolving  to  desert  in  good  time,  if  he  saw  any  danger  of 
the  alehouse  transactions  coming  to  light. 

Corkscrew  could  make  but  very  blundering  excuses  for 
himself,  and,  conscious  of  his  guilt,  turned  pale,  and  ap- 
peared so  much  more  terrified  than  butlers  usually  appeal 
when  detected  in  a  lie,  that  Mrs.  Pomfret  resolved,  as  she 
said,  to  sift  the  matter  to  the  bottom.  Impatiently  did  she 
wait  till  the  clock  struck  nine,  and  her  mistress's  bell  rang, 
the  signal  for  her  attendance  at  her  levee.  "How  do  you 
find  yourself  this  morning,  ma'am  ?"  said  she,  undrawing 
the  curtains.  "  Very  sleepy  indeed,"  answered  her  mistress 
in  a  drowsy  voice ;  "  I  think  I  must  sleep  half  an  hour 
longer  —  shut  the  curtains."  —  "  As  you  please,  ma'am ;  but 
I  suppose  I  had  better  open  a  little  of  the  window-shutter, 
for  it's  past  nine."  —  "But  just  struck."  —  "Oh  dear, 
ma'am;  it  struck  before  I  came  up-stairs,  and  you  know  wo 
are  twenty  minutes  slow. — Bless  us  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pom- 
fret,  as  she  let  fall  the  bar  of  the  window,  which  roused  her 
mistress,  "  I  'm  sure  I  beg  pardon  a  thousand  times  —  it  'h 


78  THE     FALSE     KEY, 

only  the  bar  —  because  I  bad  tbis  great  key  in  my  band." 
—  "  Put  down  tbe  key  then,  or  you  '11  knock  sometbing  else 
down ;  and  you  may  open  tbe  sbutters  now,  for  I  'm  quite 
awake/7  —  "  Dear  me  !  Pmso  sorry  to  think  of  disturbing 
you,"  cried  Mrs.  Pomfret,  at  the  same  time  throwing  the 
shutters  wide  open :  "  but  to  be  sure,  ma'am,  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you,  which  won't  let  you  sleep  again  in  a  hurry. 
I  brought  up  this  here  key  of  the  house-door  for  reasons  of 
my  own,  which  I  'm  sure  you  '11  approve  of —  but  I  'm  not 
come  to  that  part  of  my  story  yet  —  I  hope  you  were  not 
disturbed  by  the  noise  in  the  house  last  night,  ma'am."  — 
" I  heard  no  noise."  —  "I  am  surprised  at  that  though." 
continued  Mrs.  Pomfret,  and  now  proceeded  to  give  the  most 
ample  account  of  the  fire,  of  her  fears,  and  her  suspicions. 
"  To  be  sure,  ma'am,  what  I  say  is,  that  without  the  spirit 
of  prophecy  one  can  no  ways  account  for  what  has  passed. 
I'm  quite  clear  in  my  own  judgment,  that  Mr.  Corkscrew 
must  have  been  out  last  night  after  I  went  to  bed ;  for,  be- 
sides the  japanned  candlestick,  which  of  itself  I'm  sure  is 
strong  enough  to  hang  a  man,  there's  another  circumstance, 
ma'am,  that  certifies  it  to  me  —  though  I  have  not  men- 
tioned it,  ma'am,  to  no  one  yet,"  lowering  her  voice: 
"  Franklin,  when  I  questioned  him,  told  me  that  he  left  the 
lantern  out."  —  "  And  do  you  believe  him  ?"  —  "  To  be  sure, 
ma'am  —  how  can  I  help  believing  him  ?  I  never  found  him 
out  in  the  least  symptom  of  a  lie  since  ever  he  came  into 
the  house  ;  so  one  can't  help  believing  in  him,  like  him  or 
not."  —  "Without  meaning  to  tell  a  falsehood,  however,  he 
might  make  a  mistake."  —  "  No,  ma'am,  he  never  makes 
mistakes  ;  it  is  not  his  way  to  go  gossiping  and  tattling ;  he 
never  tells  anything  till  he's  asked,  and  then  it's  fit  he 
should.  About  the  sirloin  of  beef,  and  all,  he  was  right  hi 
the  end,  I  found,  to  do  him  justice  ;  and  I  'm  sure  he 's  right 
now  about  the  lantern — he  7s  always  right."  Mrs.  Churchill 
could  not  help  smiling.  "  If  you  had  seen  him,  ma'am,  last 
night,  in  the  midst  of  the  fire  —  I  'm  sure  we  may  thank 


THE     FALSE    KEY.  79 

him  that  we  are  not  burned  alive  in  our  beds  —  and  I  shall 
never  forget  his  coming  to  call  me  —  poor  fellow !  he  that  I 
was  always  scolding  and  scolding,  enough  to  make  him  hate 
me.  But  he 's  too  good  to  hate  anybody ;  and  I  '11  be  bound 
I  '11  make  it  up  to  him  now."  —  "  Take  care  that  you  do  n't 
go  from  one  extreme  into  another,  Pomfret ;  do  n't  spoil  the 
boy."  —  "  No,  ma'am,  there 's  no  danger  of  that ;  but  I  'm 
sure,  if  you  had  seen  him  last  night  yourself,  you  would 
think  he  deserved  to  be  rewarded."  —  "  And  so  he  shall  be 
rewarded,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill ;  "  but  I  will  try  him  more 
fully  yet."  —  "  There 's  no  occasion,  I  think,  for  trying  him 
any  more,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Pomfret,  who  was  as  violent 
in  her  likings  as  in  her  dislikes.  "  Pray  desire,"  continued 
her  mistress,  "  that  he  will  bring  up  breakfast  this  morning, 
and  leave  the  key  of  the  house-door,  Pomfret,  with  me." 

When  Franklin  brought  the  urn  into  the  breakfast-par- 
lour, his  mistress  was  standing  by  the  fire  with  the  key  in 
her  hand.  She  spoke  to  him  of  his  last  night's  exertions  in 
terms  of  much  approbation.  "  How  long  have  you  lived 
with  me?"  said  she,  pausing;  "three  weeks,  I  think?"  — 
"  Three  weeks  and  four  days,  madam." — "That  is  but  a 
short  time  ;  yet  you  have  conducted  yourself  so  as  to  make  me 
think  I  may  depend  upon  you.  You  know  this  key  ?"  —  "I 
believe,  madam,  it  is  the  key  of  the  house-door."  —  "  It  is. 
I  shall  trust  it  in  your  care.  It  is  a  great  trust  for  so  young 
a  person  as  you  are."  Franklin  stood  silent,  with  a  firm 
but  modest  look.  "  If  you  take  the  charge  of  this  key," 
continued  his  mistress,  "  remember  it  is  upon  condition  that 
you  never  give  it  out  of  your  own  hands.  In  the  daytime 
it  must  not  be  left  in  the  door.  You  must  not  tell  anybody 
where  you  keep  it  at  night ;  and  the  house-door  must  not  be 
unlocked  after  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  unless  by  my  orders. 
Will  you  take  charge  of  the  key  upon  these  conditions  ?"  — 
"  I  will,  madam,  do  anything  you  ^rder  me,"  said  Franklin, 
and  received  the  key  from  her  hands. 

When  Mrs.  Churchill's  orders  were  made  known,  the7 


80  TIE    FALSE    KEY. 

caused  many  secret  marvellings  and  murmurings.  Cork 
screw  and  Felix  were  disconcerted,  and  dared  not  openly 
avow  theii  discontent ;  and  they  treated  Franklin  with  the 
greatest  seeming  kindness  and  cordiality.  Everything  went 
on  smoothly  for  three  days ;  the  butler  never  attempted  his 
usual  midnight  visits  to  the  alehouse,  but  went  to  bed  in 
proper  time,  and  paid  particular  court  to  Mrs.  Pomfret,  in 
order  to  dispel  her  suspicions.  She  had  never  had  any  idea ' 
of  the  real  fact,  that  he  and  Felix  were  joined  in  a  plot  with 
housebreakers  to  rob  the  house,  but  thought  he  only  went 
out  at  irregular  hours,  to  indulge  himself  in  his  passion  for 
drinking.  So  stood  affairs  the  night  before  Mrs.  Churchill's 
birthday.  Corkscrew,  by  the  housekeeper's  means,  ventured 
to  present  a  petition  that  he  might  go  to  the  play  the  next 
day,  and  his  request  was  granted.  Franklin  came  into  the 
kitchen  just  when  all  the  servants  had  gathered  round  the 
butler,  who,  with  great  importance,  was  reading  aloud  the 
playbill.  Everybody  present  soon  began  to  speak  at  once, 
and  with  great  enthusiasm  talked  of  the  playhouse,  the 
actors,  and  actresses ;  and  then  Felix,  in  the  first  pause, 
turned  to  Franklin,  and  said,  "Lord,  you  know  nothing 
of  all  this  !  you  never  went  to  a  play,  did  you  ?"  —  "  Never," 
said  Franklin,  and  felt,  he  did  not  know  why,  a  little 
ashamed ;  and  he  longed  extremely  to  go  to  one.  "  How 
should  you  like  to  go  to  the  play  with  me  to-morrow  ?"  said 
Corkscrew.  "  Oh  \"  exclaimed  Franklin,  "  I  should  like  it 
exceedingly."  —  "  And  do  you  think  mistress  would  let  you 
if  I  asked?"  —  "I  think  —  maybe  she  would,  if  Mrs.  Pom- 
fret  asked  her."  —  "  But  then  you  have  no  money,  have 
you  ?"  —  "  No,"  said  Franklin,  sighing.  "  But  stay,"  said 
Corkscrew ;  "  what  I  am  thinking  of  is,  that,  if  mistress 
will  let  you  go,  I  '11  treat  you  myself,  rather  than  that  you ' 
should  be  disappointed." 

Delight,  surprise,  and  gratitude  appeared  in  Franklin's 
face  at  these  words.  Corkscrew  rejoiced  to  see  that  now,  at 
.east,  he  had  found  a  most  powerful  temptation.     "  Well, 


THE     FALSE     KEY.  81 

then,  I  '11  gc  just  now  and  ask  her ;  in  the  mean  time  lend 
me  the  key  of  the  house-door  for  a  minute  or  two."  —  "  Th 
key !"  answered  Franklin,  starting ;  "I'm  sorry,  but  I  can' ; 
do  that,  for  I  've  promised  my  mistress  never  to  let  it  out 
of  my  own  hands."  —  "  But  how  will  she  know  anything  of 
the  matter?  Run,  run,  and  get  it  for  us."  —  "No,  I  can- 
not" replied  Franklin,  resisting  the  push  which  the  butler 
gave  his  shoulder.  "You  can't?"  cried  Corkscrew,  chang- 
ing his  tone  ;  "  then,  sir,  I  can't  take  you  to  the  play."  — 
"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  Franklin,  sorrowfully,  but  with  stea- 
diness. "  Very  well,  sir,"  said  Felix,  mimicking  him,  "  you 
need  not  look  so  important,  nor  fancy  yourself  such  a  great 
man,  because  you  are  master  of  a  key."  —  "  Say  no  more 
to  him,"  interrupted  Corkscrew ;  "  let  him  alone  to  take  his 
own  way.  Felix,  you  would  have  no  objection,  I  suppose, 
to  going  to  the  play  with  me  ?"  —  "  Oh,  I  should  like  it  of 
all  things,  if  I  did  not  come  between  anybody  else.  But 
come,  come !"  added  the  hypocrite,  assuming  a  tone  of 
friendly  persuasion,  "you  won't  be  such  a  blockhead, 
Franklin,  as  to  lose  going  to  the  play  for  nothing ;  it 's  only 
just  obstinacy :  what  harm  can  it  do  to  lend  Mr.  Corkscrew 
the  key  for  five  minutes  ?  he  '11  give  it  you  back  again  safe 
and  sound."  —  "  I  do  n't  doubt  that"  answered  Franklin. 
"  Then  it  must  be  all  because  you  do  n't  wish  to  oblige  Mr. 
Corkscrew."  —  "  No  ;  but  I  can't  oblige  him  in  this :  for,  as 
I  told  you  before,  my  mistress  trusted  me  ;  I  promised  never 
to  let  the  key  out  of  my  own  hands ;  and  you  would  not 
have  me  break  my  trust:  Mr.  Spencer  told  me  that  was 
worse  than  robbing."  —  At  the  word  robbing,  both  Cork- 
screw and  Felix  involuntarily  cast  down  their  eyes,  and 
turned  the  conversation  immediately,  saying  that  he  did 
very  right ;  that  they  did  not  really  want  the  key,  and  had 
only  asked  for  it  just  to  try  if  he  would  keep  his  word. 
"  Shake  hands,"  said  Corkscrew,  "  I  am  glad  to  find  you  out 
to  be  an  honest  fellow !"  —  "  I  'm  sorry  you  did  not  think 
me  one  before,  Mr.  Corkscrew,"  said  Franklin,  giving  his 
band  rather  proudly ;  and  he  walked  away. 
6 


82  THE    FALSE     KEY. 

"  We  shall  make  no  hand  of  this  prig,"  said  Corkscrew 
"But  -we'll  have  the  key  from  him,  in  spite  of  all  his  obsti- 
nacy," said  Felix ;  "  and  let  him  make  his  story  good  if  he 
can  afterward.  He  shall  repent  of  these  airs.  To-night 
I  '11  watch  him,  and  find  out  where  he  hides  the  key ;  and 
when  he 's  asleep,  we  '11  get  it  without  thanking  him." 

This  plan  Felix  put  in  execution.  They  discovered  the 
place  where  Franklin  kept  the  key  at  night,  stole  it  while 
he  slept,  took  off  the  impression  in  wax,  and  carefully  re- 
placed it  in  Franklin's  trunk,  where  they  found  it. 

Probably  our  young  readers  cannot  guess  what  use  they 
could  mean  to  make  of  this  impression  of  the  key  in  wax. 
Knowing  how  to  do  mischief  is  very  different  from  wishing 
to  do  it ;  and  the  most  innocent  persons  are  generally  the 
least  ignorant.  By  means  of  the  impression  which  they 
had  thus  obtained,  Corkscrew  and  Felix  proposed  to  get  a 
false  key  made  by  Picklock,  a  smith  who  belonged  to  their 
gang  of  housebreakers  ;  and  with  this  false  key  they  knew 
they  could  open  the  door  whenever  they  pleased. 

Little  suspecting  what  had  happened,  Franklin  the  next 
morning  went  to  unlock  the  house-door  as  usual ;  but,  find- 
ing the  key  entangled  in  the  lock,  he  took  it  out  to  examine 
it,  and  perceived  a  lump  of  wax  sticking  in  one  of  the 
wards.  Struck  with  this  circumstance,  it  brought  to  his 
mind  all  that  had  passed  the  preceding  evening,  and  being 
sure  that  he  had  no  wax  near  the  key,  he  began  to  suspect 
what  had  happened ;  and  he  could  not  help  recollecting 
what  he  had  once  heard  Felix  say,  that,  "  give  him  but 
a  halfpenny-worth  of  wax,  and  he  could  open  the  strongest 
lock  that  ever  was  made  by  hands." 

All  these  things  considered,  Franklin  resolved  to  take  the 
key  just  as  it  was,  with  the  wax  sticking  in  it,  to  his  mis- 
tress. "  I  was  not  mistaken  when  I  thought  I  might  trust 
you  with  this  key,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill,  after  she  had  heard 
his  story.  "  My  brother  will  be  here  to-day,  and  I  shall  con- 
sult him  ;  in  the  mean  time  say  nothing  of  what  has  passed." 


THE     FALSE     KEY.  83 

Evening  came,  and  after  tea  Mr.  Spencer  sent  for  Frank- 
lin up-stairs.  "  So,  Mr.  Franklin,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  glad  to 
find  you  are  in  such  high  trust  in  this  family."  Franklin 
bowed.  "  But  you  have  lost,  I  understand,  the  pleasure  of 
going  to  the  play  to-night."  —  "I  don't  think  anything  — 
much,  I  mean,  of  that,  sir,"  answered  Franklin,  smiling. 
*'  Are  Corkscrew  and  Felix  gone  to  the  play  ?"  —  "  Yes  ;  half 
an  hour  ago,  sir."  —  "  Then  I  shall  look  into  his  room,  and 
examine  the  pantry  and  the  plate  that  is  under  his  care." 

When  Mr.  Spencer  came  to  examine  the  pantry,  he  found 
the  large  salvers  and  cups  in  a  basket  behind  the  door,  and 
the  other  things  placed  so  as  to  be  easily  carried  off.  Nothing 
at  first  appeared  in  Corkscrew's  bed-chamber  to  strengthen 
their  suspicions,  till,  just  as  they  were  going  to  leave  the 
room,  Mrs.  Pomfret  exclaimed,  "  Why,  if  there  is  not  Mr. 
Corkscrew's  dress-coat  hanging  up  there !  and  if  here  is  n't 
Felix's  fine  cravat  that  he  wanted  in  such  a  hurry  to  go  to 
the  play !  — Why,  sir,  they  can't  be  gone  to  the  play  —  look 
at  the  cravat.  —  Ha !  upon  my  word,  I  am  afraid  they  are 
not  at  the  play.  —  No,  sir,  no !  you  may  be  sure  that  they 
are  plotting  with  their  barbarous  gang  at  the  alehouse  — 
and  they'll  certainly  break  into  the  house  to-night  —  we 
shall  all  be  murdered  in  our  beds,  as  sure  asl'ma  living 
woman,  sir  —  but  if  you  '11  only  take  my  advice — "  "  Pray, 
good  Mrs.  Pomfret,  do  n't  be  alarmed."  —  "  Nay,  sir,  but  I 
won't  pretend  to  sleep  in  the  house,  if  Franklin  is  n't  to 
have  a  blunderbuss  and  I  a  baggonet."  —  "  You  shall  have 
both,  indeed,  Mrs.  Pomfret ;  but  do  n't  make  such  a  noise, 
for  everybody  will  hear  you." 

The  love  of  mystery  was  the  only  thing  which  could  have 
conquered  Mrs.  Pomfret's  love  of  talking.  She  was  silent ; 
and  contented  herself  the  rest  of  the  evening  with  making 
signs,  looking  ominous,  and  stalking  about  the  house  like 
one  possessed  with  a  secret. 

Escaped  from  Mrs.  Pomfret's  fears  and  advice,  Mr.  Spen- 
cer went  to  a  shop  within  a  few  doors  of  the  alehouse,  wh  ich 


84  THE    FALSE     KEY. 

he  heard  Corkscrew  frequented,  and  sent  to  beg  to  speak  to 
the  landlord.  He  came,  and  when  Mr.  Spencer  questioned 
him,  confessed  that  Corkscrew  and  Felix  were  actually 
drinking  in  his  house,  with  two  men  of  suspicious  appear- 
ance ;  that,  as  he  passed  through  the  passage,  he  heard  them 
disputing  about  a  key ;  and  that  one  of  them  said,  "  Since 
we  We  got  the  key,  we  '11  go  about  it  to-night."  This  was 
sufficient  information  :  Mr.  Spencer,  lest  the  landlord  should 
give  them  information  of  what  was  going  forward,  took  him 
along  with  him  to  Bow-street. 

A  constable  and  proper  assistance  was  sent  to  Mrs. 
Churchill's.  They  stationed  themselves  in  a  back  parlour, 
which  opened  on  a  passage  leading  to  the  butler's  pantry, 
where  the  plate  was  kept.  A  little  after  midnight  they 
heard  the  hall-door  open ;  Corkscrew  and  his  accomplices 
went  directly  to  the  pantry,  and  there  Mr.  Spencer  and  the 
constable  immediately  secured  them,  as  they  were  carrying 
off  their  booty. 

Mrs.  Churchill  and  Pomfret  had  spent  the  night  at  the 
house  of  an  acquaintance  in  the  same  street.  "  Well, 
ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Pomfret,  who  had  hoard  all  the  news  in 
the  morning,  "  the  villains  are  all  safe.  I  was  afraid  to  go 
to  the  window  this  morning,  but  it  was  my  luck  to  see  them 
all  go  by  to  jail  —  they  looked  so  shocking!  —  I  am  sure  I 
shall  never  forget  Felix's  look  to  my  dying  day !  —  But  poor 
Franklin !  ma'am,  that  boy  has  the  best  heart  in  the  world 
—  I  could  not  get  him  to  give  a  second  look  at  them  as  they 
passed  —  poor  fellow !  I  thought  he  would  have  dropped ; 
and  he  was  so  modest,  ma'am,  when  Mr.  Spencer  spoke  to 
him,  and  told  him  he  had  done  his  duty."  —  "  And  did  my 
brother  tell  him  what  reward  I  intend  for  him  ?"  —  "  No, 
ma'am,  and  I  'm  sure  Franklin  thinks  no  more  of  reward 
than  I  do." — "  I  intend,"  continued  Mrs.  Churchill,  "  to  sell 
some  <jf  my  old  useless  plate,  and  lay  it  out  in  an  annuity 
for  Franklin's  life."  —  "  La,  ma'am  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pom- 
fret with  unfeigned  joy,  "  I  'm  sure  you  are  very  good ;  and 


THE    FALSE    EST,  85 

I'm  very  glad  of  it."  —  "And,"  continued  Mrs.  Churchill, 
"  here  are  some  tickets  for  the  play,  which  I  shall  beg  you, 
Pomfret,  to  give  him,  and  to  take  him  with  you."  —  "  I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  you,  indeed,  ma'am,  and  I  '11  go  with 
him  with  all  my  heart,  and  choose  such  plays  as  won't  do 
no  prejudice  to  his  morality.  —  And,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs. 
Pomfret,  "  the  night  after  the  fire  I  left  him  my  great  Bible, 
and  my  watch,  in  my  will ;  for  I  never  was  more  mistaken 
at  the  first  in  any  boy  in  my  born  days :  but  he  has  won  me 
by  his  own  deserts,  and  I  shall  from  this  time  forth  love  all 
the  VUlaintropic  folks  for  his  sake." 


THE  BIKTHDAY  PRESENT 


"  Mamma,"  said  Rosamond,  after  a  long  silence,  "  do  you 
know  what  I  have  been  thinking  of  all  this  time  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear.  —What  1" 

"  Why,  mamma,  about  my  cousin  Bell's  birthday ;  do  you 
know  what  day  it  is  V 

"  No,  I  do  n't  remember." 

"  Dear  mother !  do  n't  you  remember  it 's  the  22d  of  De- 
cember ?  and  her  birthday  is  the  day  after  to-morrow  ?  — 
Do  n't  you  recollect  now  ?  But  you  never  remember  about 
birthdays,  mamma ;  that  was  j  ust  what  I  was  thinking  of, 
that  you  never  remember  my  sister  Laura's  birthday,  or — 
or — or  mine,  mamma." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  dear !  I  remember  your  birthday 
perfectly  well." 

"  Indeed !  but  you  never  keep  it  though." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  keeping  your  birthday  ?" 

"Oh,  mamma,  you  knrw  very  well  —  as  Bell's  birthday 
is  kept.  —  In  the  first  place  there  is  a  great  dinner." 

"  And  can  Bell  eat  more  upon  her  birthday  than  upon  any 
other  day?" 

"  No :  nor  I  should  not  mind  about  the  dinner,  except  the 
mince-pies.  But  Bell  has  a  great  many  nice  things ;  I  don't 
mean  nice  eatable  things,  but  nice  new  playthings,  given  to 
her  always  on  her  birthday;  and  everybody  drinks  her 
health,  and  she 's  so  happy !" 

"But  stay,  Rosamond,  how  you  jumble  things  together! 

(86) 


THE     BIRTHDAY     PRESENT.  87 

Is  it  everybody 's  drinking  her  health  that  makes  her  so 
happy  ?  or  the  new  playthings,  or  the  nice  mince-pies  ?  1 
can  easily  believe  that  she  is  happy  while  she  is  eating 
a  mince-pie,  or  while  she  is  playing;  but  how  does 
everybody's  drinking  her  health  at  dinner  make  her 
happy?" 

Rosamond  paused,  and  then  said  she  did  not  know. 
"*  But,"  added  she,  "  the  nice  new  playthings,  mother  \" 

"  But  why  the  nice  new  playthings  ?  Do  you  like  them 
only  because  they  are  new?" 

"Not  only  —  I  do  not  like  playthings  only  because  they 
aie  new,  but  Bell  does,  I  believe  —  for  that  puts  me  in  mind 
—  do  you  know,  mother,  she  had  a  great  drawer  full  of  old 
playthings  that  she  never  used,  and  she  said  that  they  were 
good  for  nothing  because  they  were  old;  but  I  thought 
many  of  them  were  good  for  a  great  deal  more  than  the  new 
ones.  Now  you  shall  be  judge,  mamma:  I'll  tell  you  all 
that  was  in  the  drawer." 

"Nay,  Rosamond,  thank  you,  not  just  now;  I  have  not 
time  to  listen  to  you." 

"  Well,  then,  mamma,  the  day  after  to-morrow  I  can  show 
you  the  drawer ;  I  want  you  to  be  judge  very  much,  because 
I  am  sure  I  was  in  the  right.  And,  mother,"  added  Rosa- 
mond, stopping  her  as  she  was  going  out  of  the  room,  "  will 
you  —  not  now,  but  when  you  have  time  —  will  you  tell  me 
why  you  never  keep  my  birthday  ?  why  you  never  make  any 
difference  between  that  day  and  any  other  day  ?" 

"  And  will  you,  Rosamond  —  not  now,  but  when  you  have 
time  to  think  about  it  —  tell  m<~  why  I  should  make  any  dif- 
ference between  your  birthday  and  any  other  day  ?" 

Rosamond  thought  —  but  she  could  not  find  out  any  rea- 
son :  besides,  she  suddenly  recollected  that  she  had  no  time 
to  think  any  longer,  for  there  was  a  certain  work-basket  to 
be  finished,  which  she  was  making  for  her  cousin  Bell,  as  a 
present  upon  her  birthday.  The  work  was  at  a  stand  for 
want  of  some  filigree-paper,  and  as  her  mother  was  going 


88  THE     BIRTHDAY     PRESENT. 

out,  she  asked  her  to  take  her  with  her  that  she  might  buy 
Borne.     Her  sister  Laura  went  with  them. 

"  Sister,"  said  Rosamond,  as  they  were  talking  along, 
"  what  have  you  done  with  your  half-guinea?" 
I  have  it  in  my  pocket." 

"  Dear !  you  will  keep  it  for  ever  in  your  pocket .  you 
know  my  godmother,  when  she  gave  it  to  you,  said  you  would 
keep  it  longer  than  I  should  keep  mine  ;  and  I  know  what 
she  thought  by  her  look  at  the  time.  I  heard  her  say  some- 
thing to  my  mother." 

"Yes,"  said  Laura,  smiling,  "  she  whispered  so  loud  that 
I  could  not  help  hearing  her  too :  she  said  I  was  a  little 
miser." 

" But  did  not  you  hear  her  say  that  I  was  very  generous? 
and  she  '11  see  that  she  was  not  mistaken.  I  hope  she  '11  be 
by  when  I  give  my  basket  to  Bell  —  won't  it  be  beautiful ! 
there  is  to  be  a  wreath  of  myrtle,  you  know,  round  the 
handle,  and  a  frost  ground ;  and  then  the  medallions—" 

"  Stay,"  interrupted  her  sister ;  for  Rosamond,  anticipa- 
ting the  glories  of  her  work-basket,  talked  and  walked  so 
fast  that  she  had  passed,  without  perceiving  it,  the  shop 
where  the  filigree-paper  was  to  be  bought.  They  turned 
back.  Now  it  happened  that  the  shop  was  the  corner  of  a 
street,  and  one  of  the  windows  looked  out  into  a  narrow  lane : 
a  coach  full  of  ladies  stopped  at  the  door  just  before  they' 
went  in,  so  that  no  one  had  time  immediately  to  think  of 
Rosamond  and  her  filigree-paper,  and  she  went  to  the  win- 
dow, where  she  saw  her  sister  Laura  was  looking  earnestly 
at  something  that  was  passing  in  the  lane. 

Opposite  to  the  window,  at  the  door  of  a  poor-looking 
house,  there  was  sitting  a  little  girl  weaving  lace.  Her  bob- 
bins moved  as  quick  as  lightning,  and  she  never  once  looked 
up  from  her  work. 

"Is  not  she  very  industrious  ?"  said  Laura:  "and  very 
honest  too,"  added  she,  in  a  minute  afterward;  for  just  then, 
a  baker  with  a  basket  of  rolls  on  his  head  passed,  a;  d  by 


THE  BIRTHDAY  PRESENT.     89 

accident  one  of  the  rolls  fell  close  to  the  little  girl :  she  took 
it  up  eagerly,  looked  at  it  as  if  she  was  very  hungry,  then 
put  aside  her  work,  and  ran  after  the  baker  to  return  it  to 
him. 

While  she  was  gone,  a  footman  in  livery  laced  with  silver, 
who  belonged  to  the  coach  that  stood  at  the  shop-door,  as  he 
was  lounging  with  one  of  his  companions,  chanced  to  espy 
the  weaving-pillow,  which  she  had  left  upon  a  stone  before 
the  door.  To  divert  himself  (for  idle  people  do  mischief 
often  to  divert  themselves)  he  took  up  the  pillow,  and  en- 
tangled all  the  bobbins.  The  little  girl  came  back  out  of 
breath  to  her  work  ;  but. what  was  her  surprise  and  sorrow 
to  find  it  spoiled.  She  twisted  and  untwisted,  placed  and 
replaced  the  bobbins,  while  the  footman  stood  laughing  at 
her  distress.  She  got  up  gently,  and  was  retiring  into  the 
house,  when  the  silver-laced  footman  stopped  her,  saying 
insolently,  "  Sit  still,  child." 

"  I  must  go  to  my  mother,  sir,"  said  the  child ;  "  besides, 
you  have  spoiled  all  my  lace  —  I  can't  stay." 

"  Can't  you  ?"  said  the  brutal  footman,  snatching  her 
weaving  pillow  again,  "  I  '11  teach  you  to  complain  of  me." 
And  he  broke  off,  one  after  another,  all  the  bobbins,  put 
them  into  his  pocket,  rolled  her  weaving-pillow  down  the 
dirty  lane,  then  jumped  up  behind  his  mistress's  coach,  and 
was  out  of  sight  in  an  instant. 

"  Poor  girl !"  exclaimed  Rosamond,  no  longer  able  to  re- 
strain her  indignation  at  this  injustice,  —  "  poor  little  girl  V* 

At  this  instant  her  mother  said  to  Rosamond,  "Come  now, 
my  dear,  if  you  want  this  filigree-paper,  buy  it." 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  Rosamond;  and  the  idea  of  what 
her  godmother  and  her  cousin  Bell  would  think  of  her  gene- 
rosity rushed  again  upon  her  imagination.  All  her  feelings* 
of  pity  were  immediately  suppressed.  Satisfied  with  bestow- 
ing another  exclamation  upon  the  "  Poor  little  girl!"  she 
went  to  spend  her  half-guinea  upon  her  filigree  basket.  In 
the  mean  time,  she  that  was  called  "the  little  miser"  beck 


90     THE  BIETHDAY  PRESENT. 

oned  to  the  poor  girl,  and  opening  the  window,  said,  point 
ing  to  the  cushion,  "Is  it  quite  spoiled?" 

"  Quite,  quite  spoiled !  and  I  can't,  nor  mother  neither, 
buy  another ;  and  I  can't  do  anything  else  for  my  bread/' 
A  few,  but  very  few,  tears  fell  as  she  said  this. 

"  How  much  would  another  cost  V  said  Laura. 

"  Oh,  a  great — great  deal  \" 

"More  than  that?"  said  Laura,  holding  up  her  half 
guinea. 

"Oh,  no!" 

"  Then  you  can  buy  another  with  that,"  said  Laura,  drop- 
ping the  half-guinea  into  her  hand,  and  she  shut  the  window 
before  the  child  could  find  words  to  thank  her,  but  not  before 
she  saw  a  look  of  joy  and  gratitude,  which  gave  Laura  more 
pleasure,  probably,  than  all  the  praise  which  could  have 
been  bestowed  upon  her  generosity. 

Late  on  the  morning  of  her  cousin's  birthday,  Rosamond 
finished  her  work-basket.  The  carriage  was  at  the  door  — 
Laura  came  running  to  call  her ;  her  father's  voice  was 
heard  at  the  same  instant ;  so  she  was  obliged  to  go  down 
with  her  basket  but  half-wrapped  up  in  silver-paper,  a  cir- 
cumstance at  which  she  was  a  good  deal  disconcerted :  for 
the  pleasure  of  surprising  Bell  would  be  utterly  lost,  if  one 
bit  of  the  filigree  should  peep  out  before  the  proper  time. 
As  the  carriage  went  on,  Rosamond  pulled  the  paper  to  one 
side  and  to  the  other,  and  by  each  of  the  four  corners. 

"  It  will  never  do,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  who  had 
been  watching  her  operations ;  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  never 
make  a  sheet  of  paper  cover  a  box  which  is  twice  as  large 
as  itself." 

"  It  is  not  a  bos,  father,"  said  Rosamond,  a  little  peevishly  ■ 
u  it  is  a  basket." 

"  Let  us  look  at  this  basket,"  said  he,  taking  it  out  of  her 
unwilling  hands ;  for  she  knew  of  what  frail  materials  it 
was  made,  and  she  dreaded  its  coming  to  pieces  under  her 
father's  examination. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  PRESENT.     91 

He  took  hold  of  the  handle  rather  roughly,  and  starting 
off  the  coach-seat,  she  cried — 

"Oh,  sir!  father!  sir!  you  will  spoil  it  indeed!"  said 
she,  with  increased  vehemence,  when,  after  drawing  aside 
the  veil  of  silver-paper,  she  saw  him  grasp  the  myrtle- 
wreathed  handle. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  you  will  spoil  the  poor  handle  \" 

"But  what  is  the  use  of  the  poor  Tiajidle,"  said  her  father, 
M  if  we  are  not  to  take  hold  of  it  ?  And  pray,"  continued 
he,  turning  the  basket  round  with  his  finger  and  thumb, 
rather  in  a  disrespectful  manner ;  "  pray  is  this  the  thing 
you  have  been  about  all  this  week  ?  I  have  seen  you  all 
this  week  dabbling  with  paste  and  rags ;  I  could  not  con- 
ceive what  you  were  about.     Is  this  the  thing  V* 

"  Yes,  sir.  You  think,  then,  that  I  have  wasted  my  time, 
because  the  basket  is  of  no  use ;  but  then  it  is  for  a  present 
for  my  cousin  Bell." 

"  Your  cousin  Bell  will  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
a  present  that  is  of  no  use ;  you  had  better  have  given  her 
the  purple  jar."     [See  Early  Lessons.] 

"Oh,  father!  I  thought  that  you  had  forgotten  that  —  it 
was  two  years  ago ;  I  'm  not  so  silly  now.  But  Bell  will 
like  the  basket,  I  know,  though  it  is  of  no  use." 

"  Then  you  think  Bell  sillier  now  than  you  were  two  years 
ago.  Well,  perhaps  it  is  true  ;  but  how  comes  it,  Rosamond, 
now  that  you  are  so  wise,  that  you  are  fond  of  such  a  silly 
person  ?" 

"  J,  father  ?"  said  Rosamond,  hesitating ;  "  I  do  n't  think 
I  am  very  fond  of  her." 

"  I  did  not  say  very  fond." 

"  Well,  but  I  do  n't  think  I  am  at  all  fond  of  her." 

"  But  you  have  spent  a  whole  week  in  making  this  thing 
for  her/' 

"  Yes,  and  all  my  half-guinea  besides." 

"  Yet  you  know  her  to  be  silly,  and  you  are  not  fond  of 
her  at  all ;  and  you  say  you  know  this  thing  will  be  of  n« 
use  to  her." 


92  THE     BIRTIDAY     PRESENT. 

"  But  it  is  her  birthday,  sir ;  and  I  am  sure  she  will  expect 
something,  and  everybody  else  will  give  her  something/' 

"  Then  your  reason  for  giving  is  because  she  expects  you 
to  give  her  something.  And  will  you,  or  can  you,  or  should 
you  always  give,  merely  because  others  expect,  or  because 
somebody  else  gives  V* 

"  Always  !  no,  not  always." 

"  Oh,  only  on  birthdays." 

Rosamond,  laughing,  "  Now  you  are  making  a  joke  of  me, 
papa,  I  see ;  but  I  thought  you  liked  that  people  should  be 
generous  —  my  godmother  said  that  she  did." 

"  So  do  I,  full  as  well  as  your  godmother ;  but  we  have 
not  yet  quite  settled  what  it  is  to  be  generous." 

"  Why,  is  it  not  generous  to  make  presents  ?"  said  Rosa- 
mond. 

"  That  is  a  question  which  it  would  take  up  a  great  deal 
of  time  to  answer.  But,  for  instance,  to  make  a  present  of 
a  thing  that  you  know  can  be  of  no  use,  to  a  person  you 
neither  love  nor  esteem,  because  it  is  her  birthday,  and  be- 
cause everybody  gives  her  something,  and  because  she  ex- 
pects something,  and  because  your  godmother  says  she  likes 
that  people  should  be  generous,  seems  to  me,  my  dear  Rosa- 
mond, to  be,  since  I  must  say  it,  rather  more  like  folly  than 
generosity." 

Rosamond  looked  down  upon  the  basket,  and  was  silent. 

"  Then  I  am  a  fool !  am  I  ?"  said  she,  looking  up  at  last. 

"  Because  you  have  made  one  mistake  ?  No.  If  you  have 
sense  enough  to  see  your  own  mistakes,  and  can  afterward 
avoid  them,  you  will  never  be  a  fool." 

Here  the  carriage  stopped,  and  Rosamond  recollected  that 
the  basket  was  uncovered. 

Now  we  must  observe,  that  Rosamond's  father  had  not 
been  too  severe  upon  Bell  when  he  called  her  a  silly  girl. 
From  her  infancy  she  had  been  humoured ;  and  at  eight 
years  old  she  had  the  misfortune  to  be  a  spoiled  child :  she 
was  idle,  fretful,  and  selfish,  so  that  nothing  could  make  her 


THE     BIRTHDAY     PRESENT.  93 

happy.  On  her  birthday,  however,  she  expected  to  be  per- 
fectly happy.  Everybody  in  the  house  tried  to  please  her ;  and 
they  succeeded  so  well,  that  between  breakfast  and  dinner 
she  had  only  six  fits  of  crying.  The  cause  of  five  of  these 
fits  no  one  could  discover ;  but  the  last,  and  most  lamentable, 
was  occasioned  by  a  disappointment  about  a  worked  muslin 
frock,  and  accordingly  at  dressing-time  her  maid  brought  it 
to  her,  exclaiming,  "  See  here,  miss  !  what  your  mamma  has 
sent  you  on  your  birthday.  Here 's  a  frock  fit  for  a  queen 
*  — if  it  had  but  lace  round  the  cuffs." 

"  And  why  has  it  not  lace  round  the  cuffs  ?  —  mamma  said 
it  should." 

"  Yes,  but  mistress  was  disappointed  about  the  lace :  it  is 
not  come  home." 

"  Not  come  home,  indeed !  and  did  n't  they  know  it  was 
my  birthday  ?  But  then  I  say  I  won't  wear  it  without  the 
lace  —  I  can't  wear  it  without  the  lace  —  and  I  won't." 

The  lace,  however,  could  not  be  had ;  and  Bell  at  length 
submitted  to  let  the  frock  be  put  on.  "  Come,  Miss  Bell, 
dry  your  eyes,"  said  the  maid  who  educated  her ;  "  dry  your 
eyes,  and  I  '11  tell  you  something  that  will  please  you." 

"  What,  then  ?"  said  the  child,  pouting  and  sobbing. 

"Why  —  but  you  must  not  tell  that  I  told  you." 

"No  —  but  if  I  am  asked ?" 

"  Why,  if  you  are  asked,  you  must  tell  the  truth,  to  be 
sure.     So  I  '11  hold  my  tongue,  miss." 

"  Nay,  tell  me  though,  and  I  '11  never  tell  if  I  am  asked." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  maid,  "your  cousin  Rosamond  is 
come,  and  has  brought  you  the  most  beautifullest  thing  you 
ever  saw  in  your  life ;  but  you  are  not  to  know  anything 
about  it  till  after  dinner,  because  she  wants  to  surprise  you  ; 
and  mistress  has  put  it  into  her  wardrobe  till  after  dinner." 

"  Till  after  dinner !"  repeated  Bell,  impatiently ;  "  I  can't 
wait  till  then,  I  must  see  it  this  minute." 

The  maid  refused  her  several  times,  till  Bell  burst  into 
another  fit  of  crying ;  and  the  maid,  fearing  that  her  mis* 


94  THE    BIRTHDAY     PRESENT. 

tress  would  be  angry  with  her  if  Bell's  eyes  were  red  at  din- 
ner-time, consented  to  show  her  the  basket. 

"  How  pretty !  But  let  me  have  it  in  my  own  hands," 
said  Bell,  as  the  maid  held  the  basket  up  out  of  her 
reach. 

"  Oh  no,  you  must  not  touch  it ;  for  if  you  should  spoil  it, 
what  would  become  of  me  ?" 

"  Become  of  you,  indeed !"  exclaimed  the  spoiled  child, 
who  never  considered  anything  but  her  own  immediate 
gratification,  "become  of  you,  indeed!  what  signifies  that? 
I  shan't  spoil  it ;  and  I  will  have  it  in  my  own  hands.  It 
you  do  n't  hold  it  down  for  me  directly,  I  '11  tell  that  you 
showed  it  to  me." 

"  Then  you  won't  snatch  it?" 

"  No,  no,  I  won't  indeed,"  said  Bell ;  but  she  had  learned 
from  her  maid  a  total  disregard  of  truth.  She  snatched  the 
basket  the  moment  it  was  within  her  reach  ;  a  struggle  en- 
sued, in  which  the  handle  and  lid  were  torn  off,  and  one  of 
the  medallions  crushed  inwards,  before  the  little  fury  re- 
turned to  her  senses.  Calmed  at  this  sight,  the  next  ques- 
tion was,  how  she  could  conceal  the  mischief  which  she  had 
done.  After  many  attempts,  the  handle  and  lid  were  re- 
placed, the  basket  was  put  exactly  in  the  same  spot  in  which 
it  had  stood  before,  and  the  maid  charged  the  child  "  to  look 
as  if  nothing  was  the  matter" 

We  hope  that  both  children  and  parents  will  here  pause 
for  a  moment  and  reflect.  The  habits  of  tyranny,  mean- 
ness, and  falsehood  which  children  acquire  from  living  with 
bad  servants,  are  scarcely  ever  conquered  in  the  whole 
course  of  their  future  lives. 

After  shutting  up  the  basket  they  left  the  room,  and  in 
the  adjoining  passage  they  found  a  poor  girl  waiting  with  a 
small  parcel  in  her  hand. 

"  What 's  your  business  ?"  said  the  maid. 

"  I  have  brought  home  the  lace,  madam,  that  was  bespoke 
for  the  young  lady." 


THE  BIRTHDAY  PRESENT.     95 

"  Oh,  you  have,  have  you,  at  last  ?"  said  Bell ;  "  and  pray, 
why  didn't  you  bring  it  sooner ?" 

The  girl  was  going  to  answer,  but  the  maid  interrupted 
her,  saying,  "  Come,  come,  none  of  your  idle  excuses ;  you 
are  a  little  idle  good-for-nothing  thing,  to  disappoint  Misa 
Bell  upon  her  birthday.  But  now  you  have  brought  it,  let 
us  look  at  it."  The  little  girl  gave  the  lace  without  reply, 
and  the  maid  desired  her  to  go  about  her  business,  and  not 
expect  to  be  paid ;  for  that  her  mistress  could  not  see  any- 
body, becaise  she  was  in  a  room  full  of  company. 

"May  I  call  again,  madam,  this  afternoon?"  said  the 
child,  timidly. 

"  Lord  bless  my  stars  !"  replied  the  maid,  "  what  makes 
people  so  poor,  I  wonders  !  I  wish  mistress  would  buy  her 
lace  at  the  warehouse,  as  I  told  her,  and  not  of  these  folks. 
Call  again  !  yes,  to  be  sure ;  I  believe  you  'd  call,  call,  call 
twenty  times  for  twopence." 

However  ungraciously  the  permission  to  call  again  was 
granted,  it  was  received  with  gratitude ;  the  little  girl  de- 
parted with  a  cheerful  countenance ;  and  Bell  teased  her 
maid  till  she  got  her  to  sew  the  long  wished-for  lace  upon 
her  cuffs. 

Unfortunate  Bell!  All  dinner-time  passed,  and  people 
were  so  hungry,  so  busy,  or  so  stupid,  that  not  an  eye  ob- 
served her  favourite  piece  of  finery ;  till  at  length  she  was 
no  longer  able  to  conceal  her  impatience,  and,  turning  to 
Laura,  who  sat  next  to  her,  she  said,  "  You  have  no  lace 
upon  your  cuffs:  look  how  beautiful  mine  is!  is  not  it? 
Do  n't  you  wish  your  mamma  could  afford  to  give  you  some 
like  it?  But  you  can't  get  any  if  she  would ;  for  this  was 
made  on  purpose  for  me  on  my  birthday,  and  nobody  can 
get  a  bit  more  anywhere,  if  they  would  give  the  world  for  it." 

"  But  cannot  the  person  who  made  it,"  said  Laura,  "  make 
any  more  like  it  V 

"  No,  no,  no !"  cried  Bell ;  for  she  had  already  learned, 
either  from  her  maid  or  her  mother,  the  mean  pride  which 


96     THE  BIRTHDAY  PRESENT. 

values  things,  not  for  being  really  pretty  or  useful,  but  for 
being  such  as  nobody  else  can  procure. 

"Nobody  can  get  any  like  it,  I  say,"  repeated  Bell; 
"  nobody  in  all  London  can  make  it  but  one  person,  and  that 
person  will  never  make  a  bit  for  anybody  but  me,  I  am 
sure  ;  mamma  won't  let  her,  if  I  ask  her  not." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Laura,  coolly,  "  I  do  not  want  any  of 
it ;  you  need  not  be  so  violent :  I  assure  you  that  I  do  n't 
want  any  of  it." 

"  Yes,  but  you  do  though,"  said  Bell,  more  angrily. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Laura,  smiling. 

"  You  do,  in  the  bottom  of  your  heart ;  but  you  say  you 
do  n't  to  plague  me,  I  know,"  cried  Bell,  swelling  with  dis- 
appointed vanity.  "  It  is  pretty,  for  all  that,  and  it  cost  a 
great  deal  of  money,  too,  and  nobody  shall  have  any  like  it, 
if  they  cried  their  eyes  out." 

Laura  received  this  sentence  in  silence.  Rosamond  smiled. 
And  at  her  smile,  the  ill-suppressed  rage  of  the  spoiled  child 
burst  forth  into  the  seventh  and  loudest  fit  of  crying  which 
had  been  heard  upon  her  birthday. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  my  pet  ?"  cried  her  mother ;  "  come 
to  me,  and  tell  me  what's  the  matter." 

Bell  ran  roaring  to  her  mother ;  but  no  otherwise  ex- 
plained the  cause  of  her  sorrow  than  by  tearing  the  fine 
lace,  with  frantic  gestures,  from  her  cuffs,  and  throwing  the 
fragments  into  her  mother's  lap. 

"  Oh !  the  lace,  child !  are  you  mad  ?"  said  her  mother, 
catching  hold  of  both  her  hands  ;  "  your  beautiful  laee,  my 
dear  love  !  do  you  know  how  much  it  cost  ?" 

"  I  do  n't  care  how  much  it  cost ;  it  is  not  beautiful,  and 
I'll  have  none  of  it,"  replied  Bell,  sobbing,  "for  it  is  not 
beautiful." 

u  But  it  is  beautiful,"  retorted  her  mother ;  "  I  chose  the 
pattern  myself.  Who  has  put  it  into  your  head,  child,  to 
dislike  it  ?  Was  it  Nancy  ?"  —  "  No,  not  Nancy,  but  them, 
mamma, "  said  Bell,  pointing  to  Laura  and  Rosamond. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  PRESENT.     97 

••  Oh,  fy !  do  n't  point,"  said  her  mother,  putting  down  her 
stubborn  finger ;  il  nor  say  them,  like  Nancy  ;  I  am  sure  you 
misunderstood.  Miss  Laura,  I  am  sure,  did  not  mean  any 
such  thing." 

"No,  madam;  and  I  did  not  say  any  such  thing,  that  I 
recollect,"  said  Laura,  gently. 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,"  cried  Rosamond,  warmly  rising  in  her 
sister's  defence.  But  no  defence  or  explanation  was  to  be 
heard,  for  everybody  had  now  gathered  round  Bell  to  dry 
hei  tears,  and  to  comfort  her  for  the  mischief  she  had  done 
to  her  own  cuffs. 

They  succeeded  so  well,  that  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
the  young  lady's  eyes,  and  the  reddened  arches  over  her 
eyebrows,  came  to  their  natural  colour ;  and  the  business 
being  thus  happily  hushed  up,  the  mother,  as  a  reward  to  her 
daughter  for  her  good-humour,  begged  that  Rosamond  would 
now  be  so  good  as  to  produce  her  "  charming  present." 

Rosamond,  followed  by  all  the  company,  among  whom, 
to  her  great  joy,  was  her  godmother,  proceeded  to  the  dress- 
ing-room. 

"  Now,  I  am  sure,"  thought  she,  "  Bell  will  be  surprised, 
and  my  godmother  will  see  she  was  right  about  my  genero- 
sity." 

The  doors  of  the  wardrobe  were  opened  with  due  cere- 
mony, and  the  filigree  basket  appeared  in  all  its  glory. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  charming  present,  indeed !"  said  the  god- 
mother, who  was  one  of  the  company ;  "  my  Rosamond 
knows  how  to  make  presents."  And  as  she  spoke,  she  took 
hold  of  the  basket,  to  lift  it  down  to  the  admiring  audience. 
Scarcely  had  she  touched  it,  when  lo !  the  myrtle  wreath, 
the  medallions,  all  dropped  —  the  basket  fell  to  the  ground, 
and  only  the  handle  remained  in  her  hand. 

All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  wreck.     Exclamations  of 

sorrow  were  heard  in  various  tones  ;  and  "  Who  can  have 

done  this  ?"  was  all  that  Rosamond  could  say.     Bell  stood 

in  sullen  silence,  in  which  she  obst:nately  persevered  in  the 

7 


98     THE  BIRTHDAY  PRESENT. 

midst  of  the  inquiries  which  were  made  about  the  disaster 
At  length  the  servants  were  summoned,  and  among  them 
Nancy,  Miss  Bell's  maid  and  governess.  She  affected  much 
surprise  when  she  saw  what  had  befallen  the  basket,  and 
declared  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  matter,  but  that  she 
had  seen  her  mistress  in  the  morning  put  it  quite  safe  into 
the  wardrobe  ;  and  that,  for  her  part,  she  had  never  touched 
it,  or  thought  of  touching  it,  in  her  born  days.  "  Nor  Miss 
Bell  neither,  ma'am,  I  can  answer  for  her ;  for  she  never 
knew  of  its  being  there,  because  I  never  so  much  as  men- 
tioned it  to  her,  that  there  was  such  a  thing  in  the  house, 
because  I  knew  Miss  Rosamond  wanted  to  surprise  her  with 
the  secret  —  so  I  never  mentioned  a  sentence  of  it.  Did  I, 
Miss  Bell?" 

Bell,  putting  on  the  deceitful  look  which  her  maid  had 
taught  her,  answered,  boldly,  No  ;  but  she  had  hold  of  Rosa- 
mond's hand,  and  at  the  instant  she  uttered  this  falsehood- 
she  squeezed  it  terribly. 

"  Why  do  you  squeeze  my  hand  so  ?"  said  Rosamond,  in 
a  low  voice ;  "  what  are  you  afraid  of?" 

"Afraid  of!"  cried  Bell,  turning  angrily;  "I'm  not 
afraid  of  anything  —  I  've  nothing  to  be  afraid  about." 

"  Nay,  I  did  not  say  you  had,"  whispered  Rosamond ; 
"  But  only  if  you  did  by  accident  —  you  know  what  I  mean 
—  I  should  not  be  angry  if  you  did  —  only  say  so." 

"  I  say  I  did  not !"  cried  Bell  furiously ;  "  mamma !  — 
mamma !  Nancy !  my  cousin  Rosamond  won't  believe  me ! 
that's  yery  hard  —  it's  very  rude  I  and  I  won't  bear  it — I 
won't.* 

"  Do  n't  be  angry,  love  —  do  n't,"  said  the  maid. 

"  Nobody  suspects  you,  darling,"  said  her  mother.  —  "  But 
she  has  too  much  sensibility.  Do  n't  cry,  love — nobody  sus- 
pected you." 

"  But  you  know,"  continued  she,  turning  to  the  maid. 
"  somebody  must  have  done  this,  and  I  must  know  how  it 
iras  done ;  Miss  Rosamond's  charming  present  must  not  be 


THE     BIRTHDAY     PRESENT.  99 

spoiled  in  this  way,  in  my  house,  without  my  taking  proper 
notice  of  it.  I  assure  you  I  am  very  angry  about  it,  Rosa- 
mond." 

Rosamond  did  not  rejoice  in  her  anger,  and  had  neany 
made  a  sad  mistake  by  speaking  aloud  her  thoughts  ;  "Iioaa 
very  foolish — "  she  began,  and  stopped. 

"  Ma'am,"  cried  the  maid  suddenly,  "  I  '11  venture  to  Bay 
I  know  who  did  it." 

"  Who  ?"  said  every  one  eagerly. 

"  Who  V  said  Bell,  trembling. 

"  Why,  miss,  do  n't  you  recollect  that  little  girl  with  the 
lace,  that  we  saw  peeping  about  in  the  passage :  I  'm  sure 
she  must  have  done  it,  for  here  she  was  by  herself  half  an 
hour  or  more,  and  not  another  creature  has  been  in  mis- 
tress's dressing-room,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  since  morn- 
ing. Those  sort  of  people  have  so  much  curiosity,  I  'm  sure 
she  must  have  been  meddling  with  it,"  added  the  maid. 

"  Oh  yes,  that  *s  the  thing,"  said  the  mistress,  decidedly. 
"  Well,  Miss  Rosamond,  for  your  comfort,  she  shall  never 
come  into  my  house  again." 

"  0,  that  would  not  comfort  me  at  all,"  said  Rosamond ; 
"  besides,  we  are  not  sure  that  she  did  it ;  and  if — "  A 
single  knock  at  the  door  was  heard  at  this  instant ;  it  was  the 
little  girl  who  came  to  be  paid  for  her  lace. 

"  Call  her  in,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house  ;  "  let  us  see  her 
directly." 

The  maid,  who  was  afraid  that  the  girl's  innocence  would 
appear  if  she  were  produced,  hesitated ;  but  upon  her  mis- 
tress's repeating  her  commands,  she  was  forced  to  obey. 

The  child  came  in  with  a  look  of  simplicity ;  but  when 
she  saw  the  room  full  of  company,  she  was  a  little  abashed. 
Rosamond  and  Laura  looked  at  her  and  at  one  another  with 
surprise  ;  for  it  was  the  same  little  girl  whom  they  had  seen 
weaving  lace. 

"  Is  not  it  she  ?"  whispered  Rosamond  to  her  sister. 

"  Y<38,  it  is  ;  but  hush,"  said  Laura,  "  she  does  not  kno* 


100        THE     BIRTHDAY     PRESENT. 

us.  Don't  say  a  word,  let  us  hear  what  she  will  say." 
Laura  got  behind  the  rest  of  the  company  as  she  spoke,  so 
that  the  little  girl  could  not  see  her. 

"  Vastly  well  I"  said  Bell's  mother  ;  "lam  waiting  to  see 
how  long  you  will  have  the  assurance  to  stand  there  with 
that  innocent  look.     Did  you  ever  see  that  basket  before  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Yes,  ma'am"  cried  the  maid,  "  and  what  else  do  you  know 
about  it?  You  had  better  confess  it  at  once,  and  mistress 
perhaps  will  say  no  more  about  it." 

"  Yes,  do  confess  it,"  added  Bell,  earnestly. 

"  Confess  what,  madam  ?"  said  the  little  girl ;  "  I  nevei 
touched  the  basket,  madam." 

"You  never  touched  it:  but  you  confess,"  interrupted 
Bell's  mother,  "  that  you  did  see  it  before.  And  pray,  how 
came  you  to  see  it?  you  must  have  opened  my  wardrobe." 

"  No,  indeed,  ma'am,"  said  the  little  girl ;  "  but  I  was 
waiting  in  the  passage,  ma'am,  and  this  door  was  partly 
open,  and,"  looking  at  the  maid,  "  you  know,  I  could  not 
help  seeing  it." 

"  Why,  how  could  you  see  it  through  the  doors  of  my 
wardrobe?"  rejoined  the  lady. 

The  maid,  frightened,  pulled  the  little  girl  by  the  sleeve. 

"  Answer  me,"  said  the  lady ;  "  where  did  you  see  this 
basket?" 

Another  stronger  pull. 

"  I  saw  it,  madam,  in  her  hands,"  looking  at  the  maid ; 
"  and — " 

"  "Well,  and  what  became  of  it  afterward  ?" 

"Ma'am,"  hesitating,  "miss  pulled,  and  by  accident — 1 
believe,  I  saw,  ma'am  —  miss,  you  know  what  I  saw." 

"I  do  not  know  —  I  do  not  know:  and  if  I  did,  you  had 
no  business  there  —  and  mamma  won't  believe  you,  I  am 
sure." 

But  everybody  else  did,  and  their  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Bell  in  a  manner  which  made  her  feel  rather  ashamed. 


THE     BIRTHDAY     PRESENT.         101 

"  What  do  you  all  look  at  me  so  for  ?  Why  do  you  all 
look  so  ?  —  And  am  I  to  be  shamed  upon  my  birthday  V- 
cried  she,  bursting  into  a  roar  of  passion  ;  "  and  all  for  this 
nasty  thing  I"  added  she,  pushing  away  the  remains  of  the 
basket,  and  looking  angrily  at  Rosamond. 

"Bell!  Bell!  oh  fy!  fy !  now  I  am  ashamed  of  you  — 
that 's  quite  rude  to  your  cousin,"  said  her  mother,  who  was 
more  shocked  at  her  daughter's  want  of  politeness  than  at 
her  falsehood.  "  Take  her  away,  Nancy,  till  she  has  done 
crying,"  added  she  to  the  maid,  who  accordingly  carried  off 
her  pupil. 

•  Rosamond,  during  this  scene,  especially  at  the  moment 
when  her  present  was  pushed  away  with  such  disdain,  had 
been  making  reflections  upon  the  nature  of  true  generosity. 
A  smile  from  her  father,  who  stood  by  a  silent  spectator  of 
the  catastrophe  of  the  filigree  basket,  gave  rise  to  these 
reflections  ;  nor  were  they  entirely  dissipated  by  the  condo- 
lence of  the  rest  of  the  company,  nor  even  by  the  praises 
of  her  godmother,  who,  to  console  her,  said,  "  Well,  my  dear 
Rosamond,  I  admire  your  generous  spirit.  You  know  I 
prophesied  that  your  half-guinea  would  be  gone  the  soonest 

—  did  I  not,  Laura  V  said  she,  appealing  in  a  sarcastic  tone 
to  wnere  she  thought  Laura  was.  "Where  is  Laura?  I 
do  n't  see  her." 

Laura  came  forward. 

"  You  are  too  prudent  to  throw  away  your  money  like  your 
sister  ;  your  half-guinea,  I  '11  answer  for  it,  is  snug  in  your 
pocket.     Is  it  not  ?" 

"  No,  madam,"  answered  she,  in  a  low  voice.  But  low  as 
the  voice  was,  the  poor  little  lace-girl  heard  it ;  and  now,  for 
the  first  time,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  Laura,  recollected  her 
benefactress. 

"  Oh,  that 's  the  young  lady !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 
of  joyful  gratitude,  <:the  good!  good  young  lady  who  gave 
me  the  half-guinea,  and  would  not  stay  to  be  thanked  for  it 

—  but  I  will  thank  her  now." 


102  THE     BIRTHDAY     PRESENT. 

"  The  half-guinea,  Laura  V  said  her  godmother ;  "  what 
is  all  this  ?" 

"I'D  tell  you,  madam,  if  you  please,"  said  the  little  girl. 

It  was  not  in  expectation  of  being  praised  for  it  that  Laura 
had  been  generous,  and  therefore  everybody  was  really 
touched  with  the  history  of  the  weaving-pillow ;  and  while 
they  praised,  felt  a  certain  degree  of  respect,  which  is  not 
always  felt  by  those  who  pour  forth  eulogiums.  Respect  is 
not  an  improper  word,  even  applied  to  a  child  of  Laura's 
age  ;  for  let  their  age  or  situation  be  what  it  may,  they  com- 
mand respect  who  deserve  it. 

"  Ah,  madam  \"  said  Rosamond  to  her  godmother,  "  now 
you  see  —  you  see  she  is  not  a  little  miser ;  I  'm  sure  that 's 
better  than  wasting  half  a  guinea  upon  a  filigree  basket.  Is 
it  not,  ma'am  V  said  she,  with  an  eagerness  which  showed 
that  she  had  forgotten  all  her  own  misfortunes  in  sympathy 
with  her  sister.  "  This  is  being  really  generous,  father,  is  it 
not?" 

"  Yes,  Rosamond,"  said  her  father,  as  he  kissed  her,  "  this 
is  being  really  generous.  It  is  not  only  by  giving  away 
money  that  we  can  show  generosity,  it  ia  by  giving  up  to 
others  anything  that  we  like  ourselves :  and  therefore," 
added  he,  smiling,  "  it  is  really  generous  of  you  to  give  to 
your  sister  the  thing  you  like  best  of  all  others." 

"  The  thing  that  I  like  best  of  all  others,  father!"  said 
Rosamond,  half-pleased,  half-vexed ;  "  What  is  that,  I  won- 
der ?     You  do  n't  mean  pi-aise,  do  you,  sir  ?" 

"  Nay,  you  must  decide  that,  Rosamond." 

"  Why,  sir,"  sa.d  she,  ingenuously,  "  perhaps  it  was  once 
the  thing  that  I  liked  best ;  but  the  pleasure  I  have  just  feli 
makes  me  like  something  else  better." 


SIMPLE   SUSAN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"Waked,  as  her  custom  was,  before  the  day, 
To  do  the  observance  due  to  sprightly  May." 

Dryden. 

hs  a  retired  hamlet  on  the  borders  of  Wales,  between  Os- 
westry and  Shrewsbury,  it  is  still  the  custom  to  celebrate 
the  first  of  May.  The  children  of  the  village,  who  look  for- 
ward to  this  rural  festival  with  joyful  eagerness,  usually 
meet  on  the  last  day  of  April  to  make  up  their  nosegays  for 
the  morning,  and  to  choose  their  queen.  Their  customary 
place  of  meeting  is  at  a  hawthorn,  which  stands  in  a  little 
green  nook,  open  on  one  side  to  a  shady  lane,  and  separated 
on  the  other  side  by  a  thick  sweet-brier  and  hawthorn  hedge 
from  the  garden  of  an  attorney. 

This  attorney  began  the  world  with  —  nothing  —  but  he 
contrived  to  scrape  together  a  good  deal  of  money,  every- 
body knew  how.  He  built  a  new  house  at  the  entrance  of 
the  village,  and  had  a  large  well-fenced  garden :  yet,  notwith- 
standing his  fences,  he  never  felt  himself  secure  ;  such  were 
his  litigious  habits  and  his  suspicious  temper,  that  he  was 
constantly  at  variance  with  his  simple  and  peaceable  neigh- 
bours. Some  pig,  or  dog,  or  goat  or  goose,  was  for  ever 
trespassing:  —  his  complaints  and  his  extortions  wearied 
and  alarmed  the  whole  hamlet.  The  paths  in  his  fields 
were  at  length  unfrequented,  —  his  stiles  were  blocked  up 
with  stones  or  stuffed  with  bramble  and  briars,  so  that  not 
a  gosling  could  creep  under,  or  a  giant  get  over  them  -  -  and 

(103) 


104  SIKPLE     SUSAN. 

so  careful  were  even  the  village  children  of  giving  offence 
to  this  irritable  man  of  the  law,  that  they  would  not  venture 
to  fly  a  kite  near  his  fields,  lest  it  should  entangle  in  his 
trees,  or  fall  upon  his  meadow. 

Mr.  Case,  for  this  was  the  name  of  our  attorney,  had  a 
son  and  a  daughter,  to  whose  education  he  had  not  time  to 
attend,  as  his  whole  soul  was  intent  upon  accumulating  for 
them  a  fortune.  For  several  years  he  suffered  his  children 
to  run  wild  in  the  village,  but  suddenly,  upon  his  being 
appointed  to  a  considerable  agency,  he  began  to  think  of 
making  his  children  a  little  genteel.  He  sent  his  son  to 
learn  Latin ;  he  hired  a  maid  to  wait  upon  his  daughter 
Barbara,  and  he  strictly  forbade  her  thenceforward  to  keep 
company  with  any  of  the  poor  children,  who  had  hitherto 
been  her  playfellows :  — they  were  not  sorry  for  this  prohi- 
bition, because  she  had  been  their  tyrant  rather  than  their 
companion  ;  she  was  vexed  to  observe,  that  her  absence  was 
not  regretted,  and  she  was  mortified  to  perceive  that  she 
could  not  humble  them  by  any  display  of  airs  and  finery. 

There  was  one  poor  girl  among  her  former  associates,  to 
whom  she  had  a  peculiar  dislike  —  Susan  Price  —  a  sweet- 
tempered,  modest,  sprightly,  industrious  lass,  who  was  the 
pride  and  delight  of  the  village.  Her  father  rented  a  small 
farm,  and,  unfortunately  for  him,  he  lived  near  —  Attorney 
Case.  Barbara  used  often  to  sit  at  her  window,  watching 
Susan  at  work  —  sometimes  she  saw  her  in  the  neat  garden 
raking  the  beds  or  weeding  the  borders  ;  sometimes  she  was 
kneeling  at  her  beehive  with  fresh  flowers  for  her  bees ; 
sometimes  she  was  in  the  poultry-yard  scattering  corn  from 
her  seive  among  the  eager  chk-kens  ;  and  in  the  evening  she 
was  often  seated  in  a  little  honeysuckle  arbour,  with  a  clean, 
light,  three-legged  deal  table  before  her,  upon  which  she  put 
her  plain-work.  Susan  had  been  taught  to  work  neatly  by 
her  good  mother,  who  was  very  fond  of  her,  and  to  whom 
she  was  most  gratefully  attached.  Mrs.  Price  was  an  intel- 
ligent, active,  domestic  woman,   but  her  health  was   not 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  105 

robust ;  she  earned  money,  however,  by  taking  in  plain- 
work,  and  she  was  famous  for  baking  excellent  bread  and 
breakfast-cakes.  She  was  respected  in  the  village  for  her 
conduct  as  a  wife  and  as  a  mother,  and  all  were  eager  to 
show  ner  attention.  At  her  door  the  first  branch  of  haw- 
thorn was  always  placed  on  May-morning,  and  her  Susap 
was  usually  Queen  of  the  May. 

It  was  now  time  to  choose  the  queen.  The  setting  sun 
shone  full  upon  the  pink  blossoms  of  the  hawthorn  when 
the  merry  group  assembled  upon  their  little  green.  Bar- 
bara was  now  walking  in  sullen  state  in  her  father's  garden  ; 
she  heard  the  busy  voices  in  the  lane,  and  she  concealed 
herself  behind  the  high  hedge,  that  she  might  listen  to  their 
conversation. 

"Where's  Susan?"  were  the  first  unwelcome  words 
which  she  overheard.  "Ay,  where 's  Susan?"  repeated 
Philip,  stopping  short  in  the  middle  of  a  new  tune  that  he 
was  playing  on  his  pipe.  "  I  wish  Susan  would  come  !  I 
want  her  to  sing  me  this  same  tune  over  again  ;  I  have  not 
it  yet." 

"  And  I  wish  Susan  would  come,  I  'm  sure,"  cried  a  little 
girl,  whose  lap  was  full  of  primroses  ;  "  Susan  will  give  me 
some  thread  to  tie  up  my  nosegays,  and  she  '11  show  me 
where  the  fresh  violets  grow,  and  she  has  promised  to  give 
me  a  great  bunch  of  her  double  cowslips  to  wear  to-morrow. 
I  wish  she  would  come  !" 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  without  Susan  !  She  always  shows 
us  where  the  nicest  flowers  are  to  be  found  in  the  lanes  and 
meadows,"  said  they.  "  She  must  make  up  the  garlands  — 
and  she  shall  be  Queen  of  the  May !"  exclaimed  a  multitude 
of  little  voices. 

"But  she  does  not  come  I"  said  Philip. 

Rose,  who  was  her  particular  friend,  now  came  forward 
to  assure  the  impatient  assembly  "  that  she  would  answer 
for  it  Susan  would  come  as  soon  as  she  possibly  could,  and 
that  she  probably  wls  detained  by  business  at  home."    The 


106  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

little  electors  thought  that  all  business  should  give  way  to 
theirs,  and  Rose  was  despatched  to  summon  her  friend 
immediately. 

"  Tell  her  to  make  haste,"  cried  Philip.  "  Attorney  Case 
dined  at  the  Abbey  to-day,  luckily  for  us  ;  if  he  comes  home, 
and  finds  us  here,  maybe  he  '11  drive  us  away,  for  he  says 
this  bit  of  ground  belongs  to  his  own  garden  ;  though  that 
is  not  true,  I  'm  sure,  for  Farmer  Price  knows,  and  says  it 
was  always  open  to  the  road.  The  attorney  wants  to  get 
our  play-ground,  so  he  does  —  I  wish  he  and  his  daughter 
Bab  —  or  Miss  Barbara,  as  she  must  now  be  called  —  were 
a  hundred  miles  off,  out  of  our  way,  I  know.  No  later  than 
yesterday,  she  threw  down  my  ninepins  in  one  of  her  ill- 
humours,  as  she  was  walking  by  with  her  gown  all  trailing 
in  the  dust." 

"  Yes,"  cried  Mary,  the  little  primrose-girl,  "  her  gown  is 
always  trailing ;  she  does  not  hold  it  up  nicely,  like  Susan ; 
and  with  all  her  fine  clothes,  she  never  looks  half  so  neat. 
Mamma  says  she  wishes  I  may  be  like  Susan,  when  I  grow 
up  to  be  a  great  jprl,  and  so  do  I.  I  should  not  like  to  look 
conceited  as  Barbara  does,  if  I  was  ever  so  rich." 

"  Rich  or  poor,"  said  Philip,  "  it  does  not  become  a  girl 
to  look  conceited,  much  less  bold,  as  Barbara  did  the  other 
day,  when  she  was  standing  at  her  father's  door,  withe \.«  a 
hat  upon  her  head,  staring  at  the  strange  gentleman  who 
stopped  hereabout  to  let  his  horse  drink.  I  know  what  ne 
thought  of  Bab  by  his  looks,  and  of  Susan  too  —  for  Susan 
was  in  her  garden,  bending  down  a  branch  of  the  laburnum- 
tree,  looking  at  its  yellow  flowers  which  were  just  come  out; 
and  when  the  gentleman  asked  her  how  many  miles  it  was 
from  Shrewsbury,  she  anrwered  him  so  modest !  —  not  bash- 
ful, like  as  if  she  had  never  seen  nobody  before  —  but  just 
„ight—  and  then  she  pulled  on  her  straw  hat,  which  was 
(alien  back  with  her  looking  up  at  the  laburnum,  and  she 
went  her  ways  home  ;  and  the  gentleman  says  to  me,  after 
she  was  gone,  '  Pray,  who  is  that  neat  modest  girl  ? — ' 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  107 

"  But  I  wish  Susan  would  come  I"  cried  Philip,  interrupt- 
ing himself. 

Susan  was  all  this  time,  as  her  friend  Rose  rightly  guessed, 
busy  at  home.  She  was  detained  by  her  father's  returning 
later  than  usual  —  his  supper  was  ready  for  him  nearly  an 
hour  before  he  came  home,  and  Susan  swept  up  the  ashes 
twice,  and  twice  put  on  wood  to  make  a  cheerful  blaze  for 
him ;  but  at  last,  when  he  did  come  in,  he  took  no  notice  of 
the  blaze  nor  of  Susan,  and  when  his  wife  asked  him  how 
he  did,  he  made  no  answer,  but  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  looking  very  gloomy.  Susan  put  his  supper  upon  the 
table,  and  set  his  own  chair  for  him,  but  he  pushed  away  the 
chair,  and  turned  from  the  table,  saying, — 

"I  shall  eat  nothing,  child.  Why  have  you  such  a  fire, 
to  roast  me  at  this  time  of  the  year  V 

"  You  said  yesterday,  father,  I  thought,  that  you  liked  a 
little  cheerful  wood-fire  in  the  evening,  and  there  was  a  great 
shower  of  hail ;  your  coat  is  quite  wet,  we  must  dry  it." 

"Take  it  then,  child,"  said  he,  pulling  it  off;  "I  shall 
soon  have  no  coat  to  dry  —  and  take  my  hat  too,"  said  he, 
throwing  it  upon  the  ground. 

Susan  hung  up  his  hat,  put  his  coat  over  the  back  of  a 
chair  to  dry,  and  then  stood  anxiously  looking  at  her  mother, 
who  was  not  well ;  she  had  this  day  fatigued  herself  with 
baking,  and  now,  alarmed  by  her  husband's  moody  beha- 
viour, she  sat  down,  pale  and  trembling.  He  threw  himself 
into  a  chair,  folded  his  arms,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
fire.  Susan  was  the  first  who  ventured  to  break  silence. 
Happy  the  father  who  has  such  a  daughter  as  Susan  !  —  her 
unaltered  sweetness  of  temper,  and  her  playful  affectionate 
caresses,  at  last  somewhat  dissipated  her  father's  melan- 
choly ;  he  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  eat  any  of  the  sup- 
per which  had  been  prepared  for  him  ;  however,  with  a  faint 
smile  he  told  Susan  that  he  thought  he  could  eat  one  of  her 
Guinea-hen's  eggs.  She  thanked  him,  and  with  that  nimble 
alacrity  which  marks  the  desire  to  please,  she  ran  to  her 


108  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

neat  chicken -yard — but  alas!  her  Guinea-hen  was  not 
there !  it  had  strayed  into  the  attorney's  garden ;  she  saw 
it  through  the  paling,  and  timidly  opening  the  little  gate, 
she  asked  Miss  Barbara,  who  was  walking  slowly  by,  to  let 
her  come  in  and  take  her  Guinea-hen.  Barbara,  who  was 
at  this  instant  reflecting,  with  no  very  agreeable  feelings, 
upon  the  conversation  of  the  village  children,  to  which  she 
had  recently  listened,  started  when  she  heard  Susan's  voice, 
and  with  a  proud,  ill-humoured  look  and  voice,  refused  her 
request.  "Shut  the  gate,"  said  she;  "you  have  no  busi- 
ness in  our  garden :  and  as  for  your  hen,  I  shall  keep  it :  it 
is  always  flying  in  here  and  plaguing  us ;  and  my  father 
says  it  is  a  trespasser,  and  he  told  me  I  might  catch  it  and 
keep  it  the  next  time  it  got  in,  and  it  is  in  now."  Then 
Barbara  called  to  her  maid  Betty,  and  bid  her  catch  the  mis- 
chievous hen.  "  Oh,  my  Guinea-hen !  my  pretty  Guinea- 
hen  I"  cried  Susan,  as  they  hunted  the  frighted,  screaming 
creature  from  corner  to  corner. 

"  Here,  we  have  got  it  I"  said  Betty,  holding  it  fast  by  the 
legs. 

"  Now  pay  damages,  Queen  Susan,  or  good-bye  to  your 
pretty  Guinea-hen  I"  said  Barbara,  in  an  insulting  tone. 

"  Damages,  what  damages  V  said  Susan.  "  Tell  me  what 
I  must  pay." 

"  A  shilling,"  said  Barbara. 

"Oh,  if  sixpence  would  do!"  said  Susan;  "I  have  but 
sixpence  of  my  own  in  the  world,  and  here  it  is." 

"  It  won't  do,"  said  Barbara,  turning  her  back. 

"  Nay,  but  hear  me,"  cried  Susan  ;  "  let  me  at  least  come 
in  to  look  for  its  eggs.  I  only  want  one  for  my  father's  sup 
per ;  you  shall  have  all  the  rest." 

"  What 's  your  father  or  his  supper  to  us  ?  Is  he  so  nice 
that  he  can  eat  none  but  Guinea-hen's  eggs  ?"  said  Barbara ; 
"  if  you  want  your  hen  and  your  eggs,  pay  for  them,  and 
you  '11  have  them." 

"  I  have  but  sixpence,  and  you  say  that  won't  do,"  said 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  109 

Susan,  with  a 'sigh ;  and  she  looked  at  her  favourite,  which 
was  in  the  maid's  grasping  hands,  struggling  and  screaming 
in  vain. 

Susan  retired  disconsolate.  At  the  door  of  her  father's 
cottage  she  saw  her  friend  Rose,  who  was  just  come  to  sum- 
mon her  to  the  hawthorn-bush. 

"  They  are  all  at  the  hawthorn,  and  I  'm  come  for  you ; 
we  can  do  nothing  without  you,  dear  Susan,"  cried  Rose, 
running  to  meet  her,  at  the  moment  she  saw  her ;  "  you  are 
chosen  Queen  of  the  May  —  come,  make  haste  ;  but  what's 
the  matter  ?  why  do  you  look  so  sad  V* 

"  Ah !"  said  Susan,  "  do  n't  wait  for  me,  I  can't  come  tc 
you ;  but,"  added  she,  pointing  to  the  tuft  of  double  cow 
slips  in  the  garden,  "  gather  those  for  poor  little  Mary ;  I 
promised  them  to  her ;  and  tell  her  the  violets  are  under  the 
hedge  just  opposite  the  turnstile,  on  the  right  as  we  go  to 
church.  Good-bye,  never  mind  me  —  I  can't  come  —  I  can't 
stay,  for  my  father  wants  me." 

"  But  do  n't  turn  away  your  face,  I  won't  keep  you  a  mo- 
ment, only  tell  me  what 's  the  matter,"  said  her  friend,  fol- 
lowing her  into  the  cottage. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  not  much,"  said  Susan ;  "  only  that  I 
wanted  the  egg  in  a  great  hurry  for  father,  it  would  not  have 
vexed  me  —  to  be  sure  I  should  have  clipped  my  Guinea- 
hen's  wings,  and  then  she  could  not  have  flown  over  the 
hedge  —  but  let  us  think  no  more  about  it  now,"  added  she, 
twinkling  away  a  tear. 

When  Rose,  however,  learned  that  her  friend's  Guinea-hen 
was  detained  prisoner  by  the  attorney's  daughter,  she  ex- 
claimed, with  all  the  honest  warmth  of  indignation,  and 
instantly  ran  back  to  tell  the  story  to  her  companions. 

•'  Barbara !  ay  !  like  father  like  daughter,"  cried  Farmer 
Price,  starting  from  the  thoughtful  attitude  in  which  he  had 
been  fixed,  and  drawing  his  chair  closer  to  his  wife. 

"  You  see  something  is  amiss  with  me,  wife  —  I  '11  tell 
you  what  it  vs."     As  he  lowered  his  voice,  Susan,  who  was 


110  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

not  sure  that  he  wished  she  should  hear  what  he  was  going 
to  say,  retired  from  behind  his  chair.  "Susan,  don't  go: 
sit  you  down  here,  my  sweet  Susan,"  said  he,  making  room 
for  her  upon  his  chair.  "  I  believe  I  was  a  little  cross  when 
I  came  in  first  to-night,  but  I  had  something  to  vex  me,  as 
you  shall  hear. 

"  About  a  fortnight  ago,  you  know,  wife,"  continued  he, 
"  there  was  a  balloting  in  our  town  for  the  militia  ;  now  at 
that  time  I  wanted  but  ten  days  of  forty  years  of  age,  and 
the  attorney  told  me  I  was  a  fool  for  not  calling  myself 
plump  forty ;  but  the  truth  is  the  truth,  and  it  is  what  I 
think  fittest  to  be  spoken  at  all  times,  come  what  will  of  it 

—  so  I  was  drawn  for  a  militia-man ;  but  when  I  thought 
how  loath  you  and  I  would  be  to  part,  I  was  main  glad  to 
hear  that  I  could  get  off  by  paying  eight  or  nine  guineas  for 
a  substitute  ;  only  I  had  not  the  nine  guineas,  for  you  know 
we  had  bad  luck  with  our  sheep  this  year,  and  they  died 
away  one  after  another ;  but  that  was  no  excuse ;  so  I  wen* 
to  Attorney  Case,  and  with  a  power  of  difficulty  I  got  him 
to  lend  me  the  money,  for  which,  to  be  sure,  I  gave  him 
something,  and  left  my  lease  of  our  farm  with  him,  as  he 
insisted  upon  it,  by  way  of  security  for  the  loan.  Attorney 
Case  is  too  many  for  me  ;  he  has  found  what  he  calls  a,  flaw 
in  my  lease,  and  the  lease,  he  tells  me,  is  not  worth  a  farth- 
ing, and  that  he  can  turn  us  all  out  of  our  farm  to-morrow 
if  he  pleases ;  and  sure  enough,  he  will  please,  for  I  have 
thwarted  him  this  day,  and  he  swears  he  '11  be  revenged  of 
me ;  indeed,  he  has  begun  with  me  badly  enough  already. 

—  Pin  not  come  to  the  worst  part  of  my  story  yet — " 
Here  Farmer  Price  made  a  dead  stop,  and  his  wife  and 

Susan  looked  up  in  his  face  breathless  with  anxiety. 

"  It  must  come  out,"  said  he,  with  a  short  sigh  ;  "  I  must 
leave  you  in  three  days,  wife." 

"  Must  you !"  said  his  wife  in  a  faint  resigned  voice ; 
"  Susan,  love,  open  the  window." 

Susan  ran  to  open  the  window,  and  then  returned  to  sup- 
port her  mother's  head. 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  Ill 

When  she  came  a  little  to  herself,  she  sat  up,  begged  that 
her  husband  would  go  on,  and  that  nothing  might  be  con- 
cealed from  her. 

Her  husband  had  no  wish  indeed  to  conceal  anything  from 
a  wife  he  loved  so  well ;  but,  stout  as  he  was,  and  steady  to 
his  maxim,  that  the  truth  was  the  thing  fittest  to  be  spoken 
at  all  times,  his  voice  faltered,  and  it  was  with  some  diffi- 
culty that  he  brought  himself  to  speak  the  whole  truth  at 
this  moment. 

The  fact  was  this :  Case  met  Farmer  Price  as  he  was 
coming  home  whistling  from  a  new-ploughed  field ;  the 
attorney  had  just  dined  at  the  Abbey  —  the  Abbey  was  the 
family-seat  of  an  opulent  baronet  in  the  neighbourhood,  to 
whom  Mr.  Case  had  been  agent ;  the  baronet  died  suddenly, 
and  his  estate  and  title  devolved  to  a  younger  brother,  who 
was  now  just  arrived  in  the  country,  and  to  whom  Mr.  Case 
was  eager  to  pay  his  court,  in  hopes  of  obtaining  his  favour. 
Of  the  agency  he  flattered  himself  that  he  was  pretty  secure, 
and  he  thought  that  he  might  assume  the  tone  of  command 
towards  the  tenants,  especially  towards  one  who  was  some 
guineas  in  debt,  and  in  whose  lease  there  was  a  flaw. 

Accosting  the  farmer  in  a  haughty  manner,  the  attorney 
began  with,  "  So,  Farmer  Price,  a  word  with  you,  if  you 
please ;  walk  on  here,  man,  beside  my  horse,  and  you  '11 
hear  me.  You  have  changed  your  opinion,  I  hope,  about 
that  bit  of  land,  that  corner  at  the  end  of  my  garden." 

"  As  how,  Mr.  Case  V  said  the  farmer. 

"  As  how,  man  —  why,  you  said  something  about  it's  not 
belonging  to  me,  when  you  heard  me  talk  of  enclosing  it  the 
other  day." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Price  "  and  so  I  do." 

Provoked  and  astonished  at  the  firm  tone  in  which  these 
words  were  pronounced,  the  attorney  was  upon  the  point  of 
swearing  that  he  would  have  his  revenge ;  but  as  his  pas- 
sions were  habitually  attentive  to  the  letter  of  the  law,  he 
refrained  frr.m  any  hasty  expression  which  might,  ho  was 


112  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

aware,  in  a  court  of  justice,  be  hereafter  brought  against 
him. 

"  My  good  friend  Mr.  Price,"  said  he,  in  a  soft  voice,  and 
pale  with  suppressed  rage  —  he  forced  a  smile  —  "  I  'm  under 
the  necessity  of  calling  in  the  money  I  lent  you  some  time 
ago,  and  you  will  please  to  take  notice,  that  it  must  be  paid 
to-morrow  morning.  I  wish  you  a  good  evening.  You  have 
the  money  ready  for  me,  I  dare  say." 

"  No,"  said  the  farmer,  "  not  a  guinea  of  it ;  but  John 
Simpson,  who  was  my  substitute,  has  not  left  our  village 
yet :  I  '11  get  the  money  back  from  him,  and  go  myself,  if  so 
be  it  must  be  so,  into  the  militia  —  so  I  will." 

The  attorney  did  not  expect  such  a  determination,  and  he 
represented  in  a  friendly  hypocritical  tone  to  Price,  "  that 
he  had  no  wish  to  drive  him  to  such  an  extremity,  that  it 
would  be  the  height  of  folly  in  him  to  run  Ms  head  against 
a  wall  for  ri,o  purpose.  You  don't  mean  to  take  the  corner 
into  your  own  garden,  do  you,  Price  ?"  said  he. 

"I,"  said  the  farmer,  "it's  none  of  mine;  I  never  take 
what  does  not  belong  to  me." 

"  True,  right,  very  proper,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Case ; 
"  but  then  you  have  no  interest  in  life  in  the  land  in  ques- 
tion ?" 

"  None." 

"  Then  why  so  stiff  about  it,  Price  ?  all  I  want  of  you  is 
to  say — " 

"  To  say  that  black  is  white,  which  I  won't  do,  Mr.  Case ; 
the  ground  is  a  thing  not  worth  talking  of,  but  it 's  neither 
yours  nor  mine ;  in  my  memory,  since  the  new  lane  was 
made,  it  has  always  been  open  to  the  parish,  and  no  man 
ehall  enclose  it  with  my  good-will.  —  Truth  is  truth,  and 
must  be  spoken ;  justice  is  justice,  and  should  be  done,  Mr. 
Attorney." 

"  And  law  is  law,  Mr.  Farmer,  and  shall  have  its  course, 
to  your  cost,"  cried  the  attorney,  exasperated  by  the  daunt- 
less spirit  of  this  village  Hampden. 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  113 

Here  they  parted  —  the  glow  of  enthusiasm,  the  pride  of 
rirtue,  which  made  our  hero  brave,  could  not  render  him 
insensible.  As  he  drew  nearer  home,  many  melancholy 
thoughts  pressed  upon  his  heart ;  he  passed  the  door  of  his 
own  cottage  with  resolute  steps,  however,  and  went  through 
the  village  in  search  of  the  man  who  had  engaged  to  be  his 
substitute.  He  found  him,  told  him  how  the  matter  stood  ; 
and  luckily  the  man,  who  had  not  yet  spent  the  money,  was 
willing  to  return  it,  as  there  were  many  others  had  been 
drawn  for  the  militia,  who,  he  observed,  would  be  glad  to 
give  him  the  same  price,  or  more,  for  his  services. 

The  moment  Price  got  the  money,  he  hastened  to  Mr. 
Case's  house,  walked  straight  forward  into  his  room,  and 
laying  the  money  down  upon  his  desk,  "  There,  Mr.  Attor- 
ney, are  your  nine  guineas ;  count  them ;  now  I  have  done 
with  you." 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  attorney,  jingling  the  money  trium- 
phantly in  his  hand ;  "  we  '11  give  you  a  taste  of  the  law, 
my  good  sir,  or  I  'm  mistaken.  You  forget  the  flaw  in  your 
lease,  which  I  have  safe  in  this  desk." 

"  Ah,  my  lease !"  said  the  farmer,  who  had  almost  forgot 
to  ask  for  it  till  he  was  thus  put  in  mind  of  it  by  the  attor- 
ney's imprudent  threat.  "  Give  me  my  lease,  Mr.  Case ; 
I  've  paid  my  money,  you  have  no  right  to  keep  the  lease 
any  longer,  whether  it  is  a  bad  one  or  a  good  one." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  attorney,  locking  his  desk,  and 
putting  the  key  into  his  pocket,  "  possession,  my  honest 
friend,"  cried  he,  striking  his  hand  upon  the  desk,  "  posses- 
sion is  nine  points  of  the  law.  Good-night  to  you.  I  can- 
not in  conscience  return  a  lease  to  a  tenant  in  which  I  know 
there  is  a  capital  flaw ;  it  is  my  duty  to  show  it  to  my  employer, 
or,  in  other  words,  to  your  new  landlord,  whose  agent  I  have 
good  reasons  to  expect  I  shall  be.  You  will  live  to  repent 
your  obstinacy,  Mr.  Price.     Your  servant,  sir." 

Price  retired  melancholy,  but  not  intimidated. 
8 


114  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

Many  a  man  returns  home  with  a  gloomy  countenance, 
who  has  not  quite  so  much  cause  for  vexation. 

When  Susan  heard  her  father's  story  she  quite  forgot  her 
Guinea-hen,  and  her  whole  soul  was  intent  upon  her  poor 
mother,  who,  notwithstanding  her  utmost  exertion,  could 
not  support  herself  under  this  sudden  stroke  of  misfortune. 
In  the  middle  of  the  night  Susan  was  called  up ;  her  mo- 
ther's fever  ran  high  for  some  hours,  but  towards  morning 
it  abated,  and  she  fell  into  a  soft  sleep,  with  Susan's  hand 
locked  fast  in  hers. 

Susan  sat  motionless,  and  breathed  softly,  lest  she  should 
disturb  her.  The  rush-light,  which  stood  beside  the  bed, 
was  now  burnt  low,  the  long  shadow  of  the  tall  wicker  chair 
flitted,  faded,  appeared,  and  vanished,  as  the  flame  rose  and 
sunk  in  the  socket.  Susan  was  afraid  that  the  disagreeable 
smell  might  waken  her  mother ;  and,  gently  disengaging 
her  hand,  she  went  on  tiptoe  to  extinguish  the  candle  —  all 
was  silent ;  the  gray  light  of  the  morning  was  now  spread- 
ing over  every  object;  the  sun  rose  slowly,  and  Susan  stood 
at  the  lattice-window,  looking  through  the  small  leaded 
cross-barred  panes  at  the  splendid  spectacle.  A  few  birds 
began  to  chirp,  but  as  Susan  was  listening  to  them,  her 
mother  started  in  her  sleep,  and  spoke  unintelligibly.  Susan 
hung  up  a  white  apron  before  the  window  to  keep  out  the 
light,  and  just  then  she  heard  the  sound  of  music  at  a  dis- 
tance in  the  village.  As  it  approached  nearer,  she  knew 
that  it  was  Philip  playing  upon  his  pipe  and  tabour ;  she 
distinguished  the  merry  voices  of  her  companions,  "  carol- 
ling in  honour  of  the  May,"  and  soon  she  saw  them  coming 
towards  her  father's  cottage  with  branches  and  garlands  in 
their  hands.  She  opened  quickly,  but  gently,  the  latch  of 
the  door,  and  ran  out  to  meet  them. 

"  Here  she  is  !  Here 's  Susan  \"  they  exclaimed,  joyfully ; 
"  here 's  the  Queen  of  the  May. ' '  —  "  And  here 's  her  crown  V' 
cried  Rcse,  pressing  forward;   but  Susan  put  her  finger 


SIMPLE     SUS4N.  115 

upon  her  lips,  and  pointed  to  her  mother's  window — Philip's 
pipe  stopped  instantly. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Susan ;  "  my  mother  is  ill,  I  can't 
leave  her,  you  know."  Then  gently  putting  aside  the  crown, 
her  companions  bid  her  say  who  should  wear  it  for  her. 

"  Will  you,  dear  Eose  ?"  said  she,  placing  the  garlanc 
upon  her  friend's  head  ;  "  it  is  a  charming  May  morning," 
added  she,  with  a  smile  ;  "  good-bye.  We  shan't  hear  your 
voices  or  the  pipe  when  you  have  turned  the  corner  into  the 
village,  so  you  need  only  stop  till  then,  Philip." 

"  I  shall  stop  for  all  day,"  said  Philip  ;  "  I  have  no  mind 
to  play  any  more." 

"  Good-bye,  poor  Susan ;  it  is  a  pity  you  can't  come  with 
us,"  said  all  the  children ;  and  little  Mary  ran  after  Susan 
to  the  cottage  door. 

"  I  forgot  to  thank  you,"  said  she,  "  for  the  double  cow- 
slips :  look  how  pretty  they  are,  and  smell  how  sweet  the 
violets  are  in  my  bosom,  and  kiss  me  quick,  for  I  shall  be 
left  behind!" 

Susan  kissed  the  little  breathless  girl,  and  returned  softly 
to  the  side  of  her  mother's  bed. 

"  How  grateful  that  child  is  to  me  for  a  cowslip  only ; 
How  can  I  be  grateful  enough  to  such  a  mother  as  this?" 
said  Susan  to  herself,  as  she  bent  over  her  sleeping  mother's 
pale  countenance. 

Her  mother's  unfinished  knitting  lay  upon  a  table  near 
the  bed,  and  Susan  sat  down  in  her  wicker  arm-chair,  and 
went  on  with  the  row,  in  the  middle  of  which  her  hand 
stopped  the  preceding  evening. 

"  She  taught  me  to  knit,  she  taught  me  everything  that  1 
know,"  thought  Susan  ;  "  and,  best  of  all,  she  taught  me  to 
love  her,  to  wish  to  be  like  her." 

Her  mother,  when  she  awakened,  felt  much  refreshed  by 
her  tranquil  sleep,  and  observing  that  it  was  a  delightful 
morning,  said,  "  that  she  had  been  dreaming  she  heard 
music,   but  that  the   drum    frightened  her,   because  she 


116  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

thought  it  was  the  signal  for  her  husband  to  be  carried 
away  by  a  whole  regiment  of  soldiers,  who  had  pointed  their 
bayonets  at  him.  But  that  was  but  a  dream,  Susan ;  I 
awakened,  and  knew  it  was  a  dream,  and  I  then  fell  asleep, 
and  have  slept  soundly  ever  since." 

How  painful  is  it  to  waken  to  the  remembrance  of  misfor- 
tune !  Gradually  as  this  poor  woman  collected  her  scattered 
thoughts,  she  recalled  the  circumstances  of  the  preceding 
evening ;  she  was  too  certain  that  she  had  heard  from  her 
husband's  own  lips  the  words,  I  must  leave  you  in  three  days, 
and  she  wished  that  she  could  sleep  again,  and  think  it  all 
a  dream. 

"  But  he  '11  want,  he  '11  want  a  hundred  things,"  said  she, 
starting  up ;  "I  must  get  his  linen  ready  for  him.  I 'm 
afraid  it 's  very  late ;  Susan,  why  did  you  let  me  lie  so 
long?" 

"Everything  shall  be  ready,  dear  mother,  only  don't 
hurry  yourself,"  said  Susan. 

And  indeed  her  mother  was  ill  able  to  bear  any  hurry,  or 
to  do  any  work  this  day. 

Susan's  affectionate,  dexterous,  sensible  activity,  was 
never  more  wanted,  or  more  effectual.  She  understood  so 
readily,  she  obeyed  so  exactly,  and  when  she  was  left  to  her 
own  discretion  judged  so  prudently,  that  her  mother  had 
little  trouble  and  no  anxiety  in  directing  her ;  she  said  that 
Susan  never  did  too  little  or  too  much. 

Susan  was  mending  her  father's  linen,  when  Rose  tapped 
softly  at  the  window,  and  beckoned  to  her  to  come  out ;  sho 
went  out. 

"  How  does  your  mother  do,  in  the  first  place  I"  said  Rose. 

"  Better,  thank  you." 

"  That 's  well,  and  I  have  a  little  bit  of  good  news  for  you 
besides  —  here,"  said  she,  pulling  out  a  glove,  in  which 
there  was  money,  "  we  '11  get  the  Guinea-hen  back  again  ; 
we  have  all  agreed  about  it.  This  is  the  money  that  has 
been  given  to  us  in  the  village  this  May  morning ;  at  every 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  117 

door  they  gave  silver.  See  how  generous  they  have  been  ; 
twelve  shillings,  I  assure  you.  Now  we  are  a  match  for 
Miss  Barbara.  You  won't  like  to  leave  home.  I  '11  go  to 
Barbara,  and  you  shall  see  your  Guinea-hen  in  ten  minutes. 

Rose  hurried  away,  pleased  with  her  commission,  and 
eager  to  accomplish  her  business. 

Miss  Barbara's  maid  Betty  was  the  first  person  that  was 
visible  at  the  attorney's  house. 

Rose  insisted  upon  seeing  Miss  Barbara  herself,  and  she 
was  shown  into  a  parlour  to  the  young  lady,  who  was  reading 
a  dirty  novel,  which  she  put  under  a  heap  of  law  papers  as 
they  entered. 

"  Dear,  how  you  startled  me  !  is  it  only  you  I"  said  she  to 
her  maid  ;  but  as  soon  as  she  saw  Rose  behind  the  maid,  she 
put  on  a  scornful  air. 

"  Could  not  ye  say  I  was  not  at  home,  Betty?  Well,  my 
good  girl,  what  brings  you  here  ?  something  to  borrow  or 
beg,  I  suppose." 

May  every  ambassador  —  every  ambassador  in  as  good  a 
cause,  answer  with  as  much  dignity  and  moderation  as  Rose 
replied  to  Barbara  upon  the  present  occasion  ! 

She  assured  her  that  the  person  from  whom  she  came  did 
not  send  her  either  to  beg  or  to  borrow,  that  she  was  able  to 
pay  the  full  value  of  that  for  which  she  came  to  ask,  and 
producing  her  well-filled  purse,  "  I  believe  that  this  is  a  very 
good  shilling,"  said  she  ;  "  if  you  do  n't  like  it,  I  will  change 
it;  and  now  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  Susan's  Gui- 
nea-hen ;  it  is  in  her  name  I  ask  for  it." 

"  No  matter  in  whose  name  you  ask  for  it,"  replied  Bar- 
bara, "  you  will  not  have  it.  Take  up  your  shilling,  if  you 
please.  I  would  have  taken  a  shilling  yesterday,  if  it  had 
been  paid  at  the  time  properly ;  but  I  told  Susan,  that  if  it 
was  not  paid  then,  I  should  keep  the  hen,  and  so  I  shall,  I 
promise  her.     You  may  go  back  and  tell  her  so." 

The  attorney's  daughter  had,  while  Rose  opened  her  nego- 
tiation, measured  the  depth  of  her  purse  with  a  keen  eye, 


118  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

and  her  penetration  discovered  that  it  contained  at  least  ten 
shillings ;  with  proper  management  she  had  some  hope* 
that  the  Guinea-hen  might  be  made  to  bring  in  at  least  half 
the  money. 

Rose,  who  was  of  a  warm  temper,  not  quite  so  fit  a  match 
as  she  had  thought  herself  for  the  wily  Barbara,  incautiously 
exclaimed,  "  Whatever  it  costs  us,  we  are  determined  to  have 
Susan's  favourite  hen  ;  so  if  one  shilling  won't  do,  take  two 
—  and  if  two  won't  do,  why  take  three/' 

Three  shillings  sounded  provokingly  upon  the  table,  as 
she  threw  them  down  one  after  another,  and  Barbara  coolly 
replied,  "  Three  won't  do." 

"Have  you  no  conscience,  Miss  Barbara ?— then  take 
four." 

"  Barbara  shook  her  head.  A  fifth  shilling  was  instantly 
proffered  ;  but  Bab,  who  now  saw  plainly  that  she  had  the 
game  in  her  own  hands,  preserved  a  cold,  cruel  silence. 

Rose  went  on  rapidly,  bidding  shilling  after  shilling,  till 
she  had  completely  emptied  her  purse. 

The  twelve  shillings  were  spread  upon  the  table  —  Bar- 
bara's avarice  was  moved ;  she  consented  for  this  ransom  to 
liberate  her  prisoner. 

Rose  pushed  the  money  towards  her,  but  just  then  recol- 
lecting that  she  was  acting  for  others  more  than  for  herself, 
and  doubting  whether  she  had  full  powers  to  conclude  such 
an  extravagant  bargain,  she  gathered  up  the  public  treasure, 
and  with  newly-recovered  prudence  observed  that  she  must 
go  back  to  consult  her  friends. 

Her  generous  little  friends  were  amazed  at  Barbara's 
meanness,  but  with  one  accord  declared  that  they  were  most 
willing,  for  their  parts,  to  give  up  every  farthing  of  the 
money.  They  all  went  to  Susan  in  a  body,  and  told 
her  so. 

"There's  our  purse,"  said  they,  "do  what  you  please 
with  it," 

They  would  not  wait  for  one  word  of  thanks,  but  ran 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  119 

away,  leaving  only  Rose  with  her  to  settle  the  treaty  for  the 
Guinea-hen. 

There  is  a  certain  manner  of  accepting  a  favour,  which 
shows  true  generosity  of  mind.  Many  know  how  to  give, 
but  few  know  how  to  accept  a  gift  properly. 

Susan  w&3  touched,  but  not  astonished,  by  the  kindness 
of  her  young  friends,  and  she  received  the  purse  with  as 
much  simplicity  as  she  would  have  given  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Rose,  "  shall  I  go  back  for  the  Guinea-hen  V* 

"  The  Guinea-hen !"  said  Susan,  starting  from  a  revery 
into  which  she  had  fallen  as  she  contemplated  the  purse, 
"  certainly  I  do  long  to  see  my  pretty  Guinea-hen  once  more, 
but  I  was  not  thinking  of  her  just  then  —  I  was  thinking 
of  my  father." 

Now  Susan  had  heard  her  mother  often,  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  wish  that  she  had  but  money  enough  in  the  world 
to  pay  Joseph  Simpson  for  going  to  serve  in  the  militia 
instead  of  her  husband.  "  This,  to  be  sure,  will  go  but  a 
little  way,"  thought  Susan,  "  but  still  it  may  be  of  some  use 
to  my  father."  She  told  her  mind  to  Rose,  and  concluded 
by  saying  decidedly,  that  "  if  the  money  was  given  to  her 
to  dispose  of  as  she  pleased,  she  would  give  it  to  her  father." 

"  It  is  all  yours,  my  dear  good  Susan,"  cried  Rose,  with  a 
look  of  warm  approbation ;  "  this  is  so  like  you !  But  I  'm 
sorry  that  Miss  Bab  must  keep  your  Guinea-hen.  I  would 
not  be  her  for  all  the  Guinea-hens,  or  guineas  either,  in  the 
whole  world.  Why,  I  '11  answer  for  it  the  Guinea-hen  wonN 
make  her  happy,  and  you  '11  be  happy  even  without  —  because 
you  are  good.  Let  me  come  and  help  you  to-morrow,"  con* 
tinued  she,  looking  at  Susan's  work,  "  If  you  have  any  more 
mending-work  to  do.  I  never  liked  work  till  I  worked  with 
you  —  I  won't  forget  my  thimble  or  my  scissors,"  added  she, 
laughing,  "  though  I  used  to  forget  them  when  I  was  a 
giddy  girl.  I  assure  you  I  am  a  great  hand  at  my  needle 
now  —  try  me." 

Susan  assured  her  friend  that  she  did  not  doubt  the  powers 


120  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

of  her  needle,  and  that  she  would  most  willingly  accept  of 
her  services,  but  that,  unluckily,  sue  had  finished  all  th« 
needlework  that  was  immediately  wanted. 

"  But  do  you  know,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  have  a  great  deal 
of  business  to-morrow  —  but  I  won't  tell  you  what  it  is  that 
I  have  to  do,  for  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  not  succeed  ,*  but  if  I  do 
succeed,  I  '11  come  and  tell  you  directly,  because  you  will  be 
so  glad  of  it." 

Susan,  who  had  always  been  attentive  to  what  her  mother 
taught  her,  and  who  had  often  assisted  her  when  she  was 
baking  bread  and  cakes  for  the  family  at  the  Abbey,  had 
now  formed  the  courageous,  but  not  presumptuous  idea,  that 
she  could  herself  undertake  to  bake  a  batch  of  bread.  One 
of  the  servants  from  the  Abbey  had  been  sent  all  round  the 
village  in  the  morning  in  search  of  bread,  and  had  not  been 
able  to  procure  any  that  was  tolerable.  Mrs.  Price's  last 
baking  failed  for  want  of  good  barm  —  she  was  not  now 
strong  enough  to  attempt  another  herself;  and  when  the 
brewer's  boy  came  with  eagerness  to  tell  her  that  he  had 
some  fine  fresh  yeast  for  her,  she  thanked  him,  but  sighed, 
and  said  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  her  —  she  was  too  ill  for 
the  work.  Susan  modestly  requested  permission  to  try  her 
hand,  and  her  mother  would  not  refuse  her.*  Accordingly, 
she  went  to  work  with  much  prudent  care ;  and  when  her 
bread  the  n;xt  morning  came  out  of  the  oven  it  was  excel- 
lent—  at  least  her  mother  said  so,  and  she  was  a  good  judge. 
It  was  sent  to  the  Abbey  and  as  the  family  there  had  not 
tasted  any  good  bread  since  their  arrival  in  the  country, 
they  also  were  earnest  and  warm  in  its  praise.  Inquiries 
were  made  from  the  housekeeper,  and  they  heard,  with  some 
surprise,  that  this  excellent  bread  was  made  by  a  young  girl 
of  twelve  years  old.  The  housekeeper,  who  had  known 
Susan  from  a  child,  was  pleased  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  in  her  favour. 

*  This  circumstance  is  founded  on  fact. 


PIMPLE     SUSAN.  121 

"  She  is  the  most  industrious  little  creature,  ma'am,  in 
fche  world,"  said  she  to  her  mistress ;  "  little  I  can't  so  well 
call  her  now,  since  she 's  grown  tall  and  slender  to  look  at ; 
and  glad  I  am  she  is  grown  up  likely  to  look  at,  for  hand- 
some is  that  handsome  does  —  and  she  thinks  no  more  of 
her  being  handsome  than  I  do  myself —  yet  she  has  as  pro- 
per a  respect  for  herself,  ma'am,  as  you  have  ;  and  I  always 
see  her  neat,  and  with  her  mother,  ma'am,  or  fit  people,  as 
a  girl  should  be ;  as  for  her  mother,  she  dotes  upon  her,  as 
well  she  may,  for  I  should  myself  if  I  had  .half  such  a 
daughter ;  and  then  she  has  two  little  brothers,  and  she 's 
as  good  to  them,  and  my  boy  Philip  says,  taught  'em  to  read 
more  than  the  school-mistress,  all  with  tenderness  and  good- 
nature ;  but  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  I  cannot  stop  my- 
self when  I  once  begin  to  talk  of  Susan." 

"  You  have  really  said  enough  to  excite  my  curiosity," 
said  her  mistress;  "pray,  send  for  her  immediately;  wo 
can  see  her  before  we  go  out  to  walk." 

The  benevolent  housekeeper  despatched  her  boy  Philip 
for  Susan.  Susan  was  never  in  such  an  untidy  state  that 
she  could  not  obey  such  a  summons  without  a  long  prepara- 
tion. She  had,  it  is  true,  been  very  busy,  but  orderly  people 
can  be  busy  and  neat  at  the  same  time.  She  put  on  her 
usual  straw  hat,  and  accompanied  Rose's  mother,  who  was 
going  with  a  basket  of  cleared  muslin  to  the  Abbey. 

The  modest  simplicity  of  Susan's  appearance,  and  the 
artless  good  sense  and  propriety  of  the  answers  she  gave  to 
all  the  questions  that  were  asked  her,  pleased  the  ladies  at 
the  Abbey,  who  were  good  judges  of  characters  and  man- 
ners. 

Sir  Arthur  Somers  had  two  sisters,  sensible,  benevolent 
women ;  they  were  not  of  that  race  of  fine  ladies  who  are 
miserable  the  moment  they  come  to  the  country ;  nor  yet 
were  th.3y  of  that  bustling  sort  who  quack  and  direct  all 
their  poor  neighbours,  for  the  mere  love  of  managing,  or  the 
want  of  something  to  do.     They  were  judiciously  generous, 


122  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

and  while  they  wished  to  diffuse  happiness,  they  were  not 
peremptory  in  requiring  that  people  should  be  happy  pre- 
cisely their  own  way.  With  these  dispositions,  and  with  a 
well-informed  brother,  who,  though  he  never  wished  tc 
direct,  was  always  willing  to  assist  in  their  efforts  to  d( 
good,  there  were  reasonable  hopes  that  these  ladies  would  be 
a  blessing  to  the  poor  villagers  among  whom  they  were  now 
settled. 

As  soon  as  Miss  Somers  had  spoken  to  Susan,  she  inquired 
for  her  brother ;  but  Sir  Arthur  was  in  his  study,  and  a 
gentleman  was  with  him  on  business. 

Susan  was  desirous  of  returning  to  her  mother,  and  the 
ladies,  therefore,  would  not  detain  her.  Miss  Somers  told 
her,  with  a  smile,  when  she  took  leave,  that  she  would  call 
upon  her  in  the  evening  at  six  o'clock. 

It  was  impossible  that  such  a  grand  event  as  Susan's  visit 
to  the  Abbey  could  long  remain  unknown  to  Barbara  Case 
and  her  gossiping  maid.  They  watched  eagerly  for  the 
moment  of  her  return,  that  they  might  satisfy  their  curiosity. 

"  There  she  is,  I  declare,  just  come  into  her  garden,"  cried 
Bab.     "  I  '11  run  in  and  get  it  all  out  of  her,  in  a  minute." 

Bab  could  descend  without  shame,  whenever  it  suited  her 
purposes,  from  the  height  of  insolent  pride  to  the  lowest 
meanness  of  fawning  familiarity. 

Susan  was  gathering  some  marigolds  and  some  parsley 
for  her  mother's  broth. 

"  So,  Susan,"  said  Bab,  who  came  close  to  her  before  she 
perceived  it,  "  how  goes  the  world  with  you  to-day?" 

"  My  mother  is  rather  better  to-day,  she  says,  ma'am  — 
thank  you,"  replied  Susan,  coldly  but  civilly. 

"  Ma'am,  dear,  how  polite  we  are  grown  of  a  sudden !" 
cried  Bab,  winking  at  her  maid.  "One  may  see  you've 
been  in  good  company  this  morning  —  Hey,  Susan  —  come 
let's  hear  about  it  ?"  —  "  Did  you  see  the  ladies  themselves, 
or  was  it  only  the  housekeeper  sent  for  you?  '  said  the 
maid. 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  123 

"  What  room  did  you  go  into  ?"  continued  Bab  ;  "  did  you 
see  Miss  Somers,  or  Sir  Arthur  ?" 

"  Miss  Somers." 

"  La,  she  saw  Miss  Somers  !  Betty,  I  must  hear  about  it.. 
Can't  you  stop  gathering  those  things  for  a  minute,  and  chat 
a  bit  with  us,  Susan  1" 

"  I  can't  stay  indeed,  Miss  Barbara,  for  my  mother's 
broth  is  just  wanted,  and  I  'm  in  a  hurry."     Susan  ran  home. 

"  Lord,  her  head  is  full  of  broth  now,"  said  Bab  to  her 
maid,  "  and  she  has  not  a  word  for  herself,  though  she  has 
been  abroad.  My  papa  may  well  call  her  Simple  Susan  — 
for  simple  she  is,  and  simple  she  will  be  all  the  world  over ; 
for  my  part,  I  think  she's  little  better  that  a  downright  sim- 
pleton ;  but  however,  simple  or  not,  I  '11  get  what  I  want 
out  of  her ;  she  '11  be  able  to  speak,  maybe,  when  she  has 
settled  the  grand  matter  of  the  broth.  I  '11  step  in  and  ask 
to  see  her  mother,  that  will  put  her  in  a  good  humour  in  a 
trice. 

Barbara  followed  Susan  into  the  cottage,  and  found  her 
occupied  with  the  grand  affair  of  the  broth. 

"  Is  it  ready  ?"  said  Bab,  peeping  into  the  pot  that  was 
over  the  fire  ;  "  dear,  how  savoury  it  smells  !  I  '11  wait  till 
you  go  in  with  it  to  your  mother,  for  I  must  ask  her  how 
she  does  myself." 

"  Will  you  please  to  sit  down,  then,  Miss  ?"  said  Simple 
Susan,  with  a  smile,  for  at  this  instant  she  forgot  the  Gui- 
nea-hen. "  I  have  but  just  put  the  parsley  into  the  broth, 
but  it  will  soon  be  ready." 

During  this  interval  Bab  employed  herself,  much  to  her 
own  satisfaction,  in  cross-questioning  Susan.  She  waa 
rather  provoked  indeed  that  she  could  not  learn  exactly  how 
each  of  the  ladies  was  dressed,  and  what  there  was  to  be  for 
dinner  at  the  Abbey ;  and  she  was  curious  beyond  measure 
to  find  out  what  Miss  Somers  meant  by  saying  she  would 
call  at  Mr.  Price's  cottage  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
"  What  do  you  think  she  could  mean  V 


124  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

"  I  thought  she  meant  what  she  said,"  replied  Susan, 
"  that  she  would  come  here  at  six  o'clock." 

"  Ay,  that's  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff,"  said  Barbara ;  "  bul 
what  else  did  she  mean,  think  you?  People,  you  know, 
do  n't  always  mean  exactly,  downright,  neither  more  nor 
less  than  they  say." 

"  Not  always,"  said  Susan,  with  an  arch  smile,  which  con- 
vinced Barbara  that  she  was  not  quite  a  simpleton. 

"  Not  always,"  repeated  Barbara,  colouring  ;  "  oh,  then  I 
suppose  you  have  some  guess  at  what  Miss  Somers  meant." 

"  No,"  said  Susan,  "  I  was  not  thinking  about  Miss 
Somers  when  I  said  not  always." 

"  How  nice  that  broth  does  look !"  resumed  Barbara,  after 
a  pause. 

Susan  had  now  poured  the  broth  into  a  basin,  and  as  she 
strewed  over  it  the  bright  orange  marigolds,  it  looked  very 
tempting ;  she  tasted  it,  and  added  now  a  little  salt,  and 
now  a  little  more,  till  she  thought  it  was  just  to  her  mother's 
taste. 

"Oh,  I  must  taste  it,"  said  Bab,  taking  the  basin  up 
greedily. 

"  Won't  you  take  a  spoon  ?"  said  Susan,  trembling  at  the 
large  mouthfuls  which  Barbara  sucked  up  with  a  terrible 
noise. 

"  Take  a  spoonful,  indeed !"  exclaimed  Barbara,  setting 
down  the  basin  in  high  anger.  "  The  next  time  I  taste  your 
broth  you  shall  affront  me,  if  you  dare !  The  next  time  I 
set  my  foot  in  this  house  you  shall  be  as  saucy  to  me  as  you 
please."  And  she  flounced  out  of  the  house,  repeating, 
"  Take  a  spoon,  pig,  was  what  you  meant  to  say." 

Susan  stood  in  amazement  at  the  beginning  of  this  speech, 
but  the  concluding  words  explained  to  her  the  mystery. 

Some  years  before  this  time,  when  Susan  was  a  very  little 
girl,  and  could  scarcely  speak  plain,  as  she  was  eating  a 
basin  of  bread  and  milk  for  her  supper  at  the  cottage  door, 
a  great  pig  came  up,  and  put  his  nose  into  thf  basin.    Susan 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  125 

was  willing  that  the  pig  should  have  some  share  of  the 
bread  and  milk,  but  as  she  ate  with  a  spoon  and  he  with  his 
large  mouth,  she  presently  discovered  that  he  was  likely  to 
have  more  than  his  share,  and  in  a  simple  tone  of  expostu- 
lation, she  said  to  him,  "Take  &poon,  pig."*  The  saying 
became  proverbial  in  the  village,  Susan's  little  companions 
repeated  it,  and  applied  it  upon  many  occasions,  whenever 
any  one  claimed  more  than  his  share  of  any  thing  good. 
Barbara,  who  was  then  not  Miss  Barbara,  but  plain  Bab, 
and  who  played  with  all  the  poor  children  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, was  often  reproved  in  her  unjust  methods  of  divi- 
sion by  Susan's  proverb.  Susan,  as  she  grew  up,  forgot  the 
childish  saying,  but  the  remembrance  of  it  rankled  in  Bar- 
bara's mind,  and  it  was  to  this  that  she  suspected  Susan 
had  alluded  when  she  recommended  a  spoon  to  her  while 
she  was  swallowing  the  basin  of  broth. 

"La,  miss,"  said  Barbara's  maid,  when  she  found  her 
mistress  in  a  passion  upon  her  return  from  Susan's,  "  I  only 
wondered  you  did  her  the  honour  to  set  your  foot  within  her 
doors.  What  need  have  you  to  trouble  her  for  news  about 
the  Abbey  folks,  when  your  own  papa  has  been  there  all  the 
morning,  and  is  just  come  in,  and  can  tell  you  everything." 

Barbara  did  not  know  that  her  father  meant  to  go  to  the 
Abbey  that  morning,  for  Attorney  Case  was  mysterious  even 
to  his  own  family  about  his  morning  rides.  He  never  chose 
to  be  asked  where  he  was  going,  or  where  he  had  been,  and 
this  made  his  servants  more  than  commonly  inquisitive  to 
trace  him. 

Barbara,  against  wrose  apparent  childishness  and  real 
cunning  he  was  not  sufficiently  upon  his  guard,  had  often 
the  art  of  drawing  him  into  conversation  about  his  visits. 
She  ran  into  her  father's  parlour,  but  she  knew,  the  moment 
she  saw  his  face,  that  it  was  no  time  to  ask  questions  ;  his 
pen  was  across  his  mouth,  and  his  brown  wig  pushed  oblique 

*  This  is  a  true  anecdote. 


126  SIMPLE     SUSAN 

upon  his  contracted  forehead  —  the  wig  was  always  pushed 
crooked  whenever  he  was  in  a  brown,  or  rather  a  black 
study.  Barbara,  who  did  not,  like  Susan,  bear  with  hef 
father's  testy  humour  from  affection  and  gentleness  of  dispo- 
sition, but  who  always  humoured  him  from  artifice,  tried  all 
her  skill  to  fathom  his  thoughts ;  and  when  she  found  that 
it  would  not  do,  she  went  to  tell  her  maid  so,  and  to  com- 
plain that  her  father  was  so  cross  there  was  no  bearing 
him. 

It  is  true  that  Attorney  Case  was  not  in  the  happiest 
mood  possible,  for  he  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  his 
morning's  work  at  the  Abbey.  Sir  Arthur  Somers,  the  new 
man,  did  not  suit  him,  and  he  began  to  be  apprehensive  that 
he  should  not  suit  Sir  Arthur.  He  had  sound  reasons  for 
his  doubts. 

Sir  Arthur  Somers  was  an  excellent  lawyer,  and  a  per- 
fectly honest  man.  This  seemed  to  our  attorney  a  contra- 
diction in  terms ;  —  in  the  course  of  his  practice  the  case 
had  not  occurred,  and  he  had  no  precedents  ready  to  ^direct 
his  proceedings. 

Sir  Arthur  Somers  was  a  man  of  wit  and  eloquence,  yet 
of  plain  dealing  and  humanity.  The  attorney  could  not 
persuade  himself  to  believe  that  the  benevolence  was  any- 
thing but  enlightened  cunning,  and  the  plain  dealing  he  one 
minute  dreaded  as  the  masterpiece  of  art,  and  the  next  des- 
pised as  the  characteristic  of  folly.  In  short,  he  had  not 
yet  decided  whether  he  was  an  honest  man  or  a  knave.  He 
had  settled  accounts  with  him  for  his  late  agency,  he  had 
talked  about  sundry  matters  of  business,  he  constantly  per- 
ceived that  he  could  not  impose  upon  Sir  Arthur ;  but  that 
he  could  know  all  the  mazes  of  the  law,  and  yet  prefer  the 
straight  road,  was  incomprehensible. 

Mr.  Case  paid  him  some  compliments  on  his  great  legal 
abilities,  and  his  high  reputation  at  the  bar. 

"  I  have  left  the  bar,"  replied  Sir  Arthur,  coolly. 

The  attorney  looked  in  unfeigned  astonishment,  when  a 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  127 

man  was  Actually  making  3000Z.  per  annum  at  the  bar,  that 
he  should  leave  it. 

"  I  am  come,"  said  he,  "  to  enjoy  the  kind  of  domestic 
life  which  I  prefer  to  all  others  —  in  the  country,  among 
people  whose  happiness  I  hope  to  increase." 

At  this  speech  the  attorney  changed  his  ground,  flattering 
himself  that  he  should  find  his  man  averse  to  business,  and 
ignorant  of  country  affairs.  He  talked  of  the  value  of  land 
and  of  new  leases. 

Sir  Arthur  wished  to  enlarge  his  domain,  to  make  a  ride 
round  it.  A  map  of  the  domain  was  upon  the  table  ;  Far- 
mer Price's  garden  came  exactly  across  the  new  road  for 
the  ride.  Sir  Arthur  looked  disappointed,  and  the  keen 
attorney  seized  the  moment  to  inform  him  that  "  Price's 
whole  land  was  at  his  disposal." 

"  At  my  disposal !  how  so  ?"  cried  Sir  Arthur,  eagerly ; 
"  it  will  not  be  out  of  lease,  I  believe,  these  ten  years  ;  I  '11 
look  into  the  rent-roll  again,  perhaps  I  am  mistaken." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  my  good  sir,  and  you  are  not  mis- 
taken," said  Mr.  Case,  with  a  shrewd  smile  ;  "  the  land  will 
not  be  out  of  lease  these  ten  years  in  one  sense,  and  in 
another  it  is  out  of  lease  at  this  time  being.  To  come  to 
the  point  at  once,  the  lease  is  ab  origine  null  and  void.  I 
have  detected  a  capital  flaw  in  the  body  of  it ;  I  pledge  my 
credit  upon  it,  sir,  it  can't  stand  a  single  term  in  law  or 
equity." 

The  attorney  observed  that  at  these  words  Sir  Arthur's 
eye  was  fixed  with  a  look  of  earnest  attention.  "  Now  I 
have  him  !"  said  the  cunning  tempter  to  himself. 

"  Neither  in  law  nor  equity  ?"  repeated  Sir  Arthur,  with 
apparent  incredulity,  "  are  you  sure  of  that,  Mr.  Case  ?" 

"  Sure  !  As  I  told  you  before,  sir,  I  'd  pledge  my  whole 
credit  upon  the  thing  —  I'd  stake  my  existence." 

"  That 's  something,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  as  if  he  was  pon- 
dering upon  the  matter. 

The  attorney  went  on  with  all  the  eagerness  of  a  keen 


128  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

man,  who  sees  a  chance  at  one  stroke  of  winning  a  rich 
friend  and  of  ruining  a  poor  enemy ;  —  he  explained,  with 
legal  volubility  and  technical  amplification,  the  nature  of 
the  mistake  in  Mr.  Price's  lease.  "  It  was,  sir,"  said  he, 
"  a  lease  for  the  life  of  Peter  Price,  Susannah  his  wife,  and 
to  the  survivor  or  survivors  of  them,  or  for  the  full  time  and 
term  of  twenty  years,  to  be  computed  from  the  first  day  of 
May  then  next  ensuing.  Now,  sir,  this  you  see  is  a  lease  in 
reversion,  which  the  late  Sir  Benjamin  Somers  had  not,  by 
his  settlement,  a  right  to  make.  This  is  a  curious  mistake, 
you  see,  Sir  Arthur,  and  in  filling  up  those  printed  leases 
there 's  always  a  good  chance  for  some  flaw ;  I  find  it  perpe- 
tually, but  I  never  found  a  better  than  this  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  practice." 

Sir  Arthur  stood  in  silence. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  attorney,  taking  him  by  the  but 
ton,  "  you  have  no  scruple  of  stirring  in  this  business  ?" 

"  A  little,"  said  Sir  Arthur. 

"  Why,  then,  that  can  be  done  away  in  a  moment ;  your 
name  shall  not  appear  in  it  at  all ;  you  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  make  over  the  lease  to  me  —  I  make  all  safe  to  you 
with  my  bond.  Now  being  in  possession,  I  come  forward 
in  my  own  proper  person.     Shall  I  proceed?" 

"No  —  you  have  said  enough,"  replied  Sir  Arthur. 

"  The  case  indeed  lies  in  a  nutshell,"  said  the  attorney, 
who  had  by  this  time  worked  himself  up  to  such  a  pitch  of 
professional  enthusiasm,  that,  intent  upon  his  vision  of  a 
law-suit,  he  totally  forgot  to  observe  the  impression  his 
words  made  upon  Sir  Arthur. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  we  have  forgotten  all  this  time," 
said  Sir  Arthur. 

"  What  can  that  be,  sir  ?" 

"  That  we  shall  ruin  this  poor  man." 

Case  was  thunderstruck  at  these  words,  or  rather  by  the 
look  which  accompanied  them.  He  recollected  that  he  had 
laid  himself  open  before  he  was  sure  of  Sir  Arthur's  real 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  129 

character.  He  softened,  and  said  he  should  have  had  cer- 
tainly more  consideration  in  the  case  of  any  but  a  litigious, 
pig-headed  fellow,  as  he  knew  Price  to  be. 

"  If  he  be  litigious,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  "  I  shall  certainly 
be  glad  to  get  him  fairly  out  of  the  parish  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. When  you  go  home,  you  will  be  so  good,  sir,  as  to  send 
me  his  lease,  that  I  may  satisfy  myself,  before  we  stir  in 
this  business." 

The  attorney,  brightening  up,  prepared  to  take  leave,  but 
he  would  not  persuade  himself  to  take  his  departure  with- 
out making  one  push  at  Sir  Arthur  about  the  agency. 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you,  Sir  Arthur,  with  this  lease  of 
Price's,"  said  he  ;  "I '11  leave  it  with  your  agent.  Whom 
shall  I  apply  to  ?" 

"  To  myself,  sir,  if  you  please,"  replied  Sir  Arthur. 

The  courtiers  of  Louis  the  XlVth  could  not  have  looked 
more  astounded  than  our  attorney,  when  they  received  from 
their  monarch  a  similar  answer.  It  was  this  unexpected 
reply  of  Sir  Arthur's  which  had  deranged  the  temper  of 
Mr.  Case,  which  had  caused  his  wig  to  stand  so  crooked 
upon  his  forehead,  and  which  rendered  him  impenetrably 
silent  to  his  inquisitive  daughter  Barbara.  After  walking 
up  and  down  his  room,  conversing  with  himself  for  some 
time,  he  concluded  that  the  agency  must  be  given  to  some- 
body, when  Sir  Arthur  should  go  to  attend  his  duty  in  Par- 
liament ;  that  the  agency,  even  for  the  winter  season,  was 
not  a  thing  to  be  neglected,  and  that,  if  he  managed  well, 
he  might  yet  secure  it  for  himself.  He  had  often  found  that 
small  timely  presents  worked  wonderfully  upon  his  own 
mind,  and  he  judged  of  others  by  himself.  The  tenants  had 
been  in  the  reluctant  but  constant  practice  of  making  him 
continual  petty  offerings,  and  he  resolved  to  try  the  same 
course  with  Sir  Arthur,  whose  resolution  to  be  his  own 
agent  he  thought  argued  a  close,  saving,  avaricious  disposi- 
tion. 

He  had  heard  the  housekeeper  at  the  Abbey  inquiring, 
9 


130  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

as  he  passed  through  the  servants,  whether  there  was  any 
lamb  to  be  gotten.  She  said  that  Sir  Arthur  was  remarka- 
bly fond  of  lamb,  and  that  she  wished  she  could  get  a  quar- 
ter for  him. 

Immediately  he  sallied  into  his  kitchen,  as  soon  as  the 
idea  struck  him,  and  asked  a  shepherd  who  was  waiting 
there,  whether  he  knew  of  a  nice  fat  lamb  to  be  had  any- 
where in  the  neighbourhood. 

"  I  know  of  one,"  cried  Barbara ;  "  Susan  Price  has  a  pet 
lamb,  that 's  as  fat  as  fat  can  be." 

The  attorney  eagerly  caught  at  these  words,  and  speedily 
devised  a  scheme  for  obtaining  Susan's  lamb  for  nothing. 

It  would  be  something  strange  if  an  attorney  of  his  talents 
and  standing  was  not  an  over-match  for  Simple  Susan.  He 
prowled  forth  in  search  of  his  prey ;  he  found  Susan  pack- 
ing up  her  father's  little  wardrobe,  and  when  she  looked  up 
as  she  knelt,  he  saw  that  she  had  been  in  tears. 

"  How  is  your  mother  to-day,  Susan  V 

"Worse,  sir  —  my  father  goes  to-morrow." 

"That's  a  pity." 

"  It  can't  be  helped,"  said  Susan,  with  a  sigh. 

"  It  can't  be  helped  —  how  do  you  know  that  ?"  said  he. 

"  Sir,  dear  sir !"  cried  she,  looking  up  at  him,  and  a  sud- 
den ray  of  hope  beamed  in  her  ingenuous  countenance. 

"  And  if  you  could  help  it,  Susan  ?" 

Susan  clasped  her  hands  in  silence,  more  expressive  than 
words. 

"  You  can  help  it,  Susan." 

She  started  up  in  ecstasy. 

"  What  would  you  give  now  to  have  your  father  at  home 
for  a  whole  week  longer  ?" 

"  Anything !  but  I  have  nothing." 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  a  lamb,"  said  the  hard-hearted  at- 
torney. 

"  My  poor  little  lamb,"  said  Susan ;  "  but  what  good  can 
that  do  ?" 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  131 

"  What  good  can  any  lamb  do  ?  Is  not  lamb  good  to  eat  ? 
Why  do  you  look  so  pale,  girl?  Are  not  sheep  killed  every 
day,  and  do  n't  you  eat  mutton  ?  Is  your  lamb  better  than 
anybody  else's,  think  you  ?" 

"  I  do  n't  know,  but  I  love  it  better." 

"More  fool  you." 

"  It  feeds  out  of  my  hand ;  it  follows  me  about ;  I  have 
always  taken  care  of  it ;  my  mother  gave  it  to  me." 

"  Well,  say  no  more  about  it,  then  ;  if  you  love  your  lamb 
better  than  your  father  and  your  mother  both,  keep  it,  and 
good-morning  to  you." 

"  Stay,  oh,  stay !"  cried  Susan,  catching  the  skirt  of  his 
coat  with  an  eager  trembling  hand  ;  "  a  whole  week,  did  you 
say  ?  My  mother  may  get  better  in  that  time.  No,  I  do 
not  love  my  lamb  half  so  well."  The  struggle  of  her  mind 
ceased,  and  with  a  placid  countenance  and  calm  voice, 
"  Take  the  lamb,"  said  she. 

"Where  is  it?"  said  the  attorney. 

"  Grazing  in  the  meadow,  by  the  river  side." 

"  It  must  be  brought  up  before  night-fall  for  the  butcher, 
remember." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  it,"  said  Susan,  steadily.  But,  as  soon 
as  her  persecutor  turned  his  back  and  quitted  the  house,  she 
sat  down  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  She  was  soon 
roused  by  the  sound  of  her  mother's  feeble  voice,  who  was 
calling  Susan  from  the  inner  room,  where  she  lay.  Susan 
went  in,  but  did  not  undraw  the  curtain  as  she  stood  beside 
the  bed. 

"  Are  you  there,  love  ?  Undraw  the  curtain,  that  I  may 
see  you,  and  tell  me  —  I  thought  I  heard  some  strange  voice 
just  now  talking  to  my  child.  Something's  amiss,  Susan," 
said  her  mother,  raising  herself  as  well  as  she  was  able  in 
the  bed,  to  examine  her  daughter's  countenance. 

"  Would  you  think  it  amiss,  then,  my  dear  mother,"  sail 
Susan,  stooping  to  kiss  her,  —  "  would  you  think  it  anusa, 
if  my  father  was  to  stay  with  us  a  week  longer  ?" 


132  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

"  Susan !  you  do  n't  say  so  ?" 

"  He  is,  indeed,  a  whole  week ;  but  how  burning  hot  your 
hand  is  still !" 

"  Are  you  sure  he  will  stay?  How  do  you  know?  AVho 
told  you  so  ?     Tell  me  all  quick." 

"  Attorney  Case  told  me  so ;  he  can  get  him  a  week's 
longer  leave  of  absence,  and  he  has  promised  he  will." 

"  God  bless  him  for  it  for  ever  and  ever  I"  said  the  poor 
woman,  joining  her  hands.  "May  the  blessing  of  Heaven 
be  with  him  I" 

Susan  closed  the  curtains,  and  was  silent :  she  could  not 
say  Amen. 

She  was  called  out  of  the  room  at  this  moment,  for  a  mes- 
senger was  come  from  the  Abbey  for  the  bread  bills.  It 
was  she  who  always  made  out  the  bills,  for  though  she  had 
not  had  a  great  number  of  lessons  from  the  writing-master, 
she  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  learn,  that  she  could  write 
a  very  neat  legible  hand,  and  she  found  this  very  useful ; 
she  was  not,  to  be  sure,  particularly  inclined  to  draw  out  a 
long  bill  at  this  instant,  but  business  must  be  done.  She 
set  to  *vork,  ruled  her  lines  for  the  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence,  made  out  the  bill  for  the  Abbey,  and  despatched  the 
impatient  messenger ;  then  she  resolved  to  make  out  all  the 
bills  for  the  neighbours,  who  had  many  of  them  taken  a  few 
loaves  and  rolls  of  her  baking.  "  I  had  better  get  all  my 
business  finished,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  before  I  go  down 
to  the  meadow  to  take  leave  of  my  poor  lamb."  This  was 
sooner  said  than  done ;  for  she  found  that  she  had  a  great 
number  of  bills  to  write,  and  the  slate  on  which  she  had 
entered  the  account  was  not  immediately  to  be  found,  and 
when  it  was  found  the  figures  were  almost  rubbed  out ;  Bar- 
bara had  sat  down  upon  it ;  Susan  pored  over  the  number 
of  loaves,  and  the  names  of  the  persons  who  took  them,  and 
she  wrote  and  cast  up  sums,  and  corrected  and  re-corrected 
them,  till  her  head  grew  quite  puzzled. 

The  table  was  covered  with  little  square  bits  of  paper,  on 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  133 

which  sLe  had  been  writing  bills  over  and  over  again,  when 
her  father  came  in  with  a  bill  in  his  hand. 

"  How  'a  this,  Susan  ?"  said  he  ;  "  how  can  ye  be  so  care- 
less, child  ?  What  is  jour  head  running  upon  ?  Here,  look 
at  the  bill  you  were  sending  up  to  the  Abbey !  I  met  the 
messenger,  and  luckily  asked  to  see  how  much  it  was.  Lock 
at  it." 

Susan  looked  and  blushed ;  it  was  written,  "  Sir  Arthur 
Somers  to  John  Price,  debtor,  six  dozen  lambs,  so  much." 
She  altered  it,  and  returned  it  to  her  father ;  but  he  had 
taken  up  some  of  the  papers  which  lay  on  the  table.  "  What 
are  all  these,  child  1" 

"  Some  of  them  are  wrong,  and  I  've  written  them  out 
again,"  said  Susan. 

"  Some  of  them !  all  of  them,  I  think,  seem  to  be  wrong, 
if  I  can  read,"  said  her  father,  rather  angrily;  and  he 
pointed  out  to  her  sundry  strange  mistakes. 

Her  head  indeed  had  been  running  upon  her  poor  lamb. 
She  corrected  all  the  mistakes  with  so  much  patience,  and 
bore  to  be  blamed  with  so  much  good  humour,  that  her 
father  at  last  said,  that  it  was  impossible  ever  to  scold  Susan 
without  being  in  the  wrong  at  the  last. 

As  soon  as  all  was  set  right,  he  took  the  bills,  and  said 
he  would  go  round  to  the  neighbours,  and  collect  the  money 
himself,  for  that  he  should  be  very  proud  to  have  it  to  saj 
to  them,  that  it  was  all  earned  by  his  own  little  daughter. 

Susan  resolved  to  keep  the  pleasure  of  telling  him  of  his 
week's  reprieve  till  he  should  come  home  to  sup,  as  he  had 
promised  to  do  in  her  mother's  room.  She  was  not  sorry  to 
hear  him  sigh  as  he  passed  the  knapsack,  which  she  had 
been  packing  up  for  his  journey. 

"How  delighted  he  will  be  when  he  hears  the  good  news !" 
said  she  to  herself;  "  but  I  know  he  will  be  a  little  sorry 
too  for  my  poor  lamb." 

"  As  she  had  now  settled  all  her  business,  she  thought 
Bhe  could  have  time  to  go  down  to  the  meadow  by  the  river- 


134  SIMPLE     SUGAN. 

side  to  see  her  favourite;  but  just  as  she  had  tied  on  her 
straw-hat,  the  village  clock  struck  four,  and  this  was  the 
hour  at  which  she  always  went  to  fetch  her  little  brothers 
home  from  a  dame-school  near  the  village.  She  knew  that 
they  would  be  disappointed  if  she  was  later  than  usual,  and 
she  did  not  like  to  keep  them  waiting,  because  they  were 
very  patient  good  boys  ;  so  she  put  off  the  visit  to  her  lamb, 
and  went  immediately  for  her  brothers. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

"Ev*n  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  year, 
That  calls  th'  unwonted  villager  abroad, 
With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train, 
To  gather  king-cups  in  the  yellow  mead, 
To  prink  their  heads  with  daisies."  —  Cowper. 

The  dame-school,  which  was  about  a  mile  from  the  ham- 
let, was  not  a  splendid  mansion,  but  it  was  reverenced  as 
much  by  the  young  race  of  village-scholars  as  if  it  had  been 
the  most  stately  edifice  in  the  land ;  it  was  a  low-roofed, 
long  thatched  tenement,  sheltered  by  a  few  reverent  oaks, 
under  which  many  generations  of  hopeful  children  had 
in  their  turn  gambolled.  The  close  shaven  green,  which 
sloped  down  from  the  hatch-door  of  the  school-room,  was 
paled  round  with  a  rude  paling,  which,  though  decayed  in 
some  parts  by  time,  was  not  in  any  place  broken  by  violence. 
The  place  bespoke  order  and  peace.  The  dame  who  go- 
verned here  was  well  obeyed,  because  she  was  just;  and 
well  beloved,  because  she  was  ever  glad  to  give  well-earned 
praise  and  pleasure  to  her  little  subjects. 

Susan  had  once  been  under  her  gentle  dominion,  and  had 
been  deservedly  her  favourite  scholar ;  the  dame  often  cited 
her  as  the  best  example  to  the  succeeding  tribe  of  emulous 
youngsters. 


SIMTLE     SUSAN.  135 

Susan  had  scarcely  opened  the  wicket  which  separated 
the  green  before  the  school-room  door  from  the  lane,  when 
she  heard  the  merry  voices  of  the  children,  and  saw  the 
little  troop  issuing  from  the  hatchway,  and  spreading  over 
the  green. 

"  Oh,  there 's  our  Susan !"  cried  her  two  little  brothers, 
running,  leaping,  and  bounding  up  to  her ;  and  many  of  the 
other  rosy  girls  and  boys  crowded  round  her  to  talk  of  their 
plays,  for  Susan  was  easily  interested  in  all  that  made  others 
happy ;  but  she  could  not  make  them  comprehend,  that,  if 
they  all  spoke  at  once,  it  was  not  possible  that  she  could 
hear  what  was  said.  The  voices  were  still  raised  one  above 
another,  all  eager  to  establish  some  important  observation 
about  nine-pins,  or  marbles,  or  tops,  or  bows  and  arrows, 
when  suddenly  music  was  heard,  unusual  music,  and  the 
crowd  was  silenced.  The  music  seemed  to  be  near  the  spo*. 
where  the  children  were  standing,  and  they  looked  round  t( 
see  whence  it  could  come. 

Susan  pointed  to  a  great  oak-tree,  and  they  beheld,  seated 
under  its  shade,  an  old  man  playing  upon  his  harp. 

The  children  all  approached  —  at  first  timidly,  for  the 
sounds  were  solemn ;  but  as  the  harper  heard  their  little 
footsteps  coming  towards  him,  he  changed  his  hand,  and 
played  one  of  his  most  lively  tunes.  The  circle  closed,  and 
pressed  nearer  and  nearer  to  him ;  some  who  were  in  th? 
foremost  row  whispered  to  each  other :  "  He 's  blind !  What 
a  pity  I"  and  "  He  looks  very  poor ;  what  a  ragged  coat  he 
wears !"  said  others.  "  He  must  be  very  old,  for  all  his 
hair  is  white,  and  he  must  have  travelled  a  great  way,  for 
his  shoes  are  quite  worn  out,"  observed  another. 

All  these  remarks  were  made  while  he  was  tuning  his 
harp,  for  when  he  once  more  began  to  play,  not  a  word  was 
uttered.  He  seemed  pleased  by  their  simple  exclamations 
of  wonder  and  delight,  and  eager  to  amuse  his  young  audi- 
ence, he  played  now  a  gay  and  now  a  pathetic  air,  to  suit 
their  several  humours. 


136  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

Susan's  voice,  which  was  soft  and  sweet,  expressive  of 
gentleness  and  good-nature,  caught  his  ear  the  moment  she 
spoke ;  he  turned  his  face  eagerly  to  the  place  where  she 
stood,  and  it  was  observed,  that  whenever  she  said  that  she 
liked  any  tune  particularly,  he  played  it  over  again. 

"  I  am  blind,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  cannot  see  youi 
faces,  but  I  know  you  all  asunder  by  your  voices,  and  I  cao 
guess  pretty  well  at  all  your  humours  and  characters  by 
your  voices." 

"  Can  you  so,  indeed  t"  cried  Susan's  little  brother  "Wil- 
liam, who  had  stationed  himself  between  the  old  man's 
knees,  "  then  you  heard  my  sister  Susan  speak  just  now. 
Can  you  tell  us  what  sort  of  a  person  she  is  V* 

"  That  I  can,  I  think,  without  being  a  conjurer,"  said  the 
old  man,  lifting  the  boy  up  on  his  knee  ;  "  your  sister  Susan 
is  good-natured." 

The  boy  clapped  his  hands. 

"  And  good-tempered." 

"  Right,"  said  little  William,  with  a  louder  clap  of  ap- 
plause. 

"  And  very  fond  of  the  little  boy  who  sits  upon  my  knee." 

"  0  right !  right !  quite  right  I"  exclaimed  the  child,  and 
"  Quite  right  I"  echoed  on  all  sides. 

"  But  how  came  you  to  know  so  much,  when  you  are 
blind  ?"  said  William,  examining  the  old  man  attentively. 

"  Hush,"  said  John,  who  was  a  year  older  than  his  bro- 
ther, and  very  sage,  "  you  should  not  put  him  in  mind  of 
his  being  blind." 

"  Though  I  am  blind,"  said  the  harper,  "  I  can  hear,  you 
know,  and  I  heard  from  your  sister  herself  all  that  I  told 
you  of  her,  that  she  was  good-tempered,  and  good-natured, 
and  fond  of  you." 

"  Oh,  that's  wrong  —  you  did  not  hear  all  that  from  her- 
self, I'm  sure/'  said  John,  "for  nobody  ever  hears  her 
praising  herself." 

"  Did  not  I  hear  her  tell  you,  when  you  first  came  round 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  137 

ine,  that  she  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  go  home,  but  that  she 
would  stay  a  little  while  since  you  wished  it  so  much  ?  — 
was  not  that  good-natured  ?  And  when  you  said  you  did 
not  like  the  tune  she  liked  best,  she  was  not  angry  with  you, 
but  said,  'Then  play  William's  first,  if  you  please/  Was 
not  that  good-tempered  ?" 

"Oh,"  interrupted  William,  "it's  all  true;  but  how  did 
you  find  out  that  she  was  fond  of  me  V1 

"  That  is  such  a  difficult  question,"  said  the  harper,  "  that 
I  must  take  time  to  consider."  He  tuned  his  harp  as  he 
pondered,  or  seemed  to  ponder ;  and  at  this  instant  two  boys, 
who  had  been  searching  for  birds-nests  in  the  hedges,  and 
who  had  heard  the  sound  of  the  harp,  came  blustering  up. 
and  pushing  their  way  through  the  circle,  one  of  them 
exclaimed, — 

"  What 's  going  on  here  ?  Who  are  you,  my  old  fellow  ? 
A  blind  harper;  well,  play  us  a  tune,  if  you  can  play  e\er 
a  good  one — play  me — let 's  see,  what  shall  he  play,  Bob  V 
added  he,  turning  to  his  companion.  "Bumper  Squire 
Jones." 

The  old  man,  though  he  did  not  seem  quite  pleased  with 
the  peremptory  manner  of  the  request,  played,  as  he  was 
desired,  "  Bumper  Squire  Jones ;"  and  several  other  tunes 
were  afterward  bespoke  by  the  same  rough  and  tyrannical 
voice. 

The  little  children  shrunk  back  in  timid  silence,  and  eyed 
the  great  brutal  boy  with  dislike. 

This  boy  was  the  son  of  Attorney  Case,  and  as  his  father 
had  neglected  to  correct  his  temper  when  he  was  a  child,  as 
he  grew  up  it  became  insufferable :  all  who  were  younger 
and  weaker  than  himself  dreaded  his  approach,  and  detested 
him  as  a  tyrant. 

When  the  old  harper  was  so  tired  that  he  could  play  no 
more,  a  lad,  who  usually  carried  his  harp  for  him,  and  who 
was  within  call,  came  up,  and  held  his  master's  hat  to  the 
company,  saying,  "Will  you  be  pleased  to  remember  us?" 


138  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

The  children  readily  produced  their  halfpence,  and  thought 
their  wealth  well  bestowed  v>pon  this  poor  good-natured 
man,  who  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  entertain  them,  better 
even  than  upon  the  gingerbread-woman,  whose  stall  they 
loved  to  frequent.  The  hat  was  held  some  time  to  the  attor- 
ney's son  before  he  chose  to  see  it ;  at  last  he  put  his  hand 
surlily  into  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  pulled  out  a  shilling; 
there  were  sixpenny-worth  of  halfpence  in  the  hat.  "  I  '1 
take  these  halfpence/'  said  he,  "  and  here 's  a  shilling  for 
you." 

"  Bless  you,  sir  !"  said  the  lad ;  but  as  he  took  the  shil- 
ling, which  the  young  gentleman  had  slily  put  into  the 
blind  man's  hand,  he  saw  that  it  was  not  worth  one  far- 
thing. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  good,  sir,"  said  the  lad,  whose  busi- 
ness it  was  to  examine  the  money  for  his  master. 

"  I  am  afraid,  then,  you  '11  get  no  other,"  said  young  Case, 
with  an  insulting  laugh. 

"  It  will  never  do,  sir,"  persisted  the  lad ;  "  look  at  it 
yourself,  the  edges  are  all  yellow ;  you  can  see  the  copper 
through  it  quite  plain  ;  sir,  nobody  will  take  it  from  us." 

•'That's  your  affair,"  said  the  brutal  boy,  pushing  away 
his  hand  ;  "  you  may  pass  it,  you  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  if 
you  look  sharp  —  you  have  taken  it  from  me,  and  T  shan't 
take  it  back  again,  I  promise  you." 

A  whipper  of  "  That 's  very  unjust "  was  heard.  The  little 
assembly,  though  under  evident  constraint,  could  no  longer 
suppress  their  indignation. 

"  Who  sayf  it 's  unjust  ?"  cried  the  tyrant,  sternly,  looking 
down  upon  his  judges. 

Susan's  little  brothers  had,  held  her  gown  fast  to  prevent 
her  from  moving  at  the  beflcinnirg  of  this  contest,  and  she 
was  now  so  much  interested  to  °ee  the  end  of  it,  that  she 
stood  still  without  making  anv  resi**a.nce 

"Is  any  one  here  among  yourscbvis  a  iuuge  of  silver?" 
said  the  old  man. 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  189 

"  Yes,  here  's  the  butcher's  boy,"  said  the  attorney's  son  ; 
M  show  it  to  him." 

He  was  a  sickly-looking  boy,  and  of  a  remarkably  peace- 
able disposition. 

Young  Case  fancied  that  he  would  be  afraid  to  give  judg- 
ment against  him  ;  however,  after  some  moments'  hesitation, 
and  after  turning  the  shilling  round  several  times,  he  pro- 
nounced, "that,  as  far  as  his  judgment  went,  but  he  did  not 
pretend  to  be  downright  certain  sure  of  it,  the  shilling  was 
not  over  and  above  good."  Then  turning  to  Susan  to  screen 
himself  from  manifest  danger,  for  the  attorney's  son  looked 
upon  him  with  a  vengeful  mien,  "  But  here 's  Susan  here, 
who  understands  silver  a  great  deal  better  than  I  do ;  she 
takes  a  power  of  it  for  bread,  you  know." 

"  I  '11  leave  it  to  her,"  said  the  old  harper ;  "  if  she  says 
the  shilling  is  good,  keep  it,  Jack." 

The  shilling  was  handed  to  Susan,  who,  though  she  had 
with  becoming  modesty  forborne  all  interference,  did  not 
hesitate  when  she  was  called  upon  to  speak  the  truth :  "I 
think  that  this  shilling  is  a  bad  one,"  said  she,  and  the 
gentle  but  firm  tone  in  which  she  pronounced  the  words  for 
a  moment  awed  and  silenced  the  angry  and  brutal  boy. 

"  There 's  another,  then,"  cried  he,  "  I  have  sixpences  and 
shillings  too  in  plenty,  thank  my  stars." 

Susan  now  walked  away  with  her  two  little  brothers, 
and  all  the  other  children  separated  to  go  to  their  several 
homes. 

The  old  harper  called  to  Susan,  and  begged  that,  if  she 
was  going  towards  the  village,  she  would  be  so  kind  as  tc 
Bhow  him  the  way. 

"  His  lad  took  up  his  harp,  and  little  William  took  the 
old  man  by  the  hand :  "  I  '11  lead  him,  I  can  lead  him,"  said 
lie  ;  and  John  ran  on  before  them  to  gather  king-cups  in  the 
meadow. 

There  was  a  small  rivulet  which  they  had  to  cross,  and 
as  the  plank  which  served  for  a  bridge  over  it  was  rather 


140  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

narrow,  Susan  was  afraid  to  trust  the  old  blind  man  to  his 
little  conductor ;  she  therefore  went  on  the  tottering  plank 
first  herself,  and  then  led  the  old  harper  carefully  over :  they 
were  now  come  to  a  gate,  which  opened  upon  the  high-road 
to  the  village. 

"  There  is  the  high  road  straight  before  you,"  said  Susan 
to  the  lad,  who  was  carrying  his  master's  harp,  "  you  can't 
miss  it ;  now  I  must  bid  you  a  good-evening,  for  I  'm  in  a 
great  hurry  to  get  home,  and  must  go  the  short  way  across 
the  fields  here,  which  would  not  be  so  pleasant  for  you, 
because  of  the  stiles.     Good-bye." 

The  old  harper  thanked  her,  and  went  along  the  high-road., 
while  she  and  her  brothers  tripped  on  as  fast  as  they  could 
by  the  short  way  across  the  fields. 

"  Miss  Somers,  I  am  afraid,  will  be  waiting  for  us,"  said 
Susan  ;  "  you  know  she  said  she  would  call  at  six,  and  by 
the  length  of  our  shadows  I  'm  sure  it  is  late." 

When  they  came  to  their  own  cottage  door,  they  heard 
many  voices,  and  they  saw,  when  they  entered,  several  ladies 
standing  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Come  in,  Susan,  we  thought  you  had  quite  forsaken  us," 
said  Miss  Somers  to  Susan,  who  advanced  timidly.  "  I  fancy 
you  forgot  that  we  promised  to  pay  you  a  visit  this  evening ; 
but  you  need  not  blush  so  much  about  the  matter,  there  is 
no  great  harm  done,  we  have  only  been  here  about  five 
minutes,  and  we  have  been  well  employed  in  admiring  your 
neat  garden  and  your  orderly  shelves.  Is  it  you,  Susan, 
who  keep  these  things  in  such  nice  order?"  continued  Miss 
Somers,  looking  round  the  kitchen. 

Before  Susan  could  reply,  little  "William  pushed  forward, 
and  answered,  "  Yes,  ma'am,  it  is  my  sister  Susan  that  keeps 
everything  neat,  and  she  always  comes  to  school  for  us  too, 
which  was  what  caused  her  to  be  so  late."  —  "  Because  as 
how,"  continued  John,  "  she  was  loath  to  refuse  us  hearing 
a  blind  man  play  on  the  harp  —  it  was  we  kept  her,  and  we 
hopes,  ma'am,  as  you  are  —  as  you  seem  so  good,  you  won't 
take  it  amiss." 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  14" 

Miss  Soraers  and  her  sister  smiled  at  the  affectionate  sim- 
plicity with  which  Susan's  little  brothers  undertook  her 
defence,  and  they  were,  from  this  slight  circumstance,  dis- 
posed to  think  yet  more  favourably  of  a  family  which  seemed 
so  well  united. 

They  took  Susan  along  with  them  through  the  village  ; 
many  came  to  their  doors,  and  far  from  envying,  all  secretly 
wished  Susan  well  as  she  passed. 

"  I  fancy  we  shall  find  what  we  want  here,"  said  Miss 
Somers,  stopping  before  a  shop,  where  unfolded  sheets  of 
pins  and  glass  buttons  glistened  in  the  window,  and  where 
rolls  of  many-coloured  ribands  appeared  ranged  in  tempting 
order.  She  went  in,  and  was  rejoiced  to  see  the  shelves  at 
the  back  of  the  counter  well  furnished  with  glossy  tiers  of 
stuffs,  and  gay,  neat  printed  linens  and  calicoes. 

"Now,  Susan,  choose  yourself  a  gown,"  said  Miss 
Somers ;  "  you  set  an  example  of  industry  and  good  con- 
duct, of  which  we  wish  to  take  public  notice,  for  the  benefit 
of  others." 

The  shopkeeper,  who  was  father  to  Susan's  friend  Kose, 
looked  much  satisfied  by  this  speech ;  and,  as  if  a  compli- 
ment had  been  paid  to  himself,  bowed  low  to  Miss  Somers, 
and  then  with  alertness,  which  a  London  linen-draper  might 
have  admired,  produced  piece  after  piece  of  his  best  goods 
to  his  young  customer  —  unrolled,  unfolded,  held  the  bright 
stuffs  and  callendered  calicoes  in  various  lights.  Now 
stretched  his  arm  to  the  highest  shelves,  and  brought  down 
in  a  trice  what  seemed  to  be  beyond  the  reach  of  any  but  a 
giant's  arm :  now  dived  into  some  hidden  recess  beneath 
the  counter,  and  brought  to  light  fresh  beauties  and  fresh 
temptations. 

Susan  looked  on  with  more  indifference  than  most  of  the 
spectators.  She  was  thinking  much  of  her  lamb,  and  more 
of  her  father. 

Miss  Somers  had  put  a  bright  guinea  into  her  hand,  and 
had  bid  her  pay  for  her  own  gown ;  but  Susan,  as  she  looked 


142  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

at  the  guir.ea,  thought  it  was  a  great  deal  of  money  to  lay 
out  upon  herself,  and  she  wished,  but  did  not  know  how  t<? 
ask,  that  she  might  keep  it  for  a  better  purpose. 

Some  people  are  wholly  inattentive  to  the  lesser  feelings, 
and  incapable  of  reading  the  countenances  of  those  on 
whom  they  bestow  their  bounty.  Miss  Somers  and  her  sis- 
tor  were  not  of  this  roughly  charitable  class. 

"  She  does  not  like  any  of  these  things,"  whispered  Miss 
Scmers  to  her  sister. 

Her  sister  observed  that  Susan  looked  as  if  her  thoughts 
were  far  distant  from  gowns. 

"  If  you  do  n't  fancy  any  of  these  things,"  said  the  civil 
shopkeeper  to  Susan,  "we  shall  have  a  new  assortment  of 
calicoes  for  the  spring  season  soon  from  town." 

"  Oh,"  interrupted  Susan,  with  a  smile  and  a  blush, 
"  these  are  all  pretty,  and  too  good  for  me,  but — " 

"  But  what,  Susan  ?"  said  Miss  Somers.  "  Tell  us  what 
is  passing  in  your  little  mind." 

Susan  hesitated. 

"  Well  then,  we  will  not  press  you ;  you  are  scarcely 
acquainted  with  us  yet;  when  you  are,  you  will  not  be 
afraid,  I  hope,  to  speak  your  mind.  Put  this  shining  yellow 
counter,"  continued  she,  pointing  to  the  guinea,  "  in  your 
pocket,  and  make  what  use  of  it  you  please.  From  what 
we  know,  and  from  what  we  have  heard  of  you,  we  are  per- 
suaded  that  you  will  make  a  good  use  of  it." 

"  I  think,  madam,"  said  the  master  of  the  shop,  with  a 
shrewd  good-natured  look,  "I  could  give  a  pretty  good 
guess  myself  what  will  become  of  that  guinea  —  but  I  say 
nothing." 

"  No,  that  is  right,"  said  Miss  Somers  ;  "we  leave  Susan 
entirely  at  liberty,  and  now  we  will  not  detain  her  any 
longer.  Good-night,  Susan,  we  shall  soon  come  again  to 
your  neat  cottage." 

Susan  courtesied  with  an  expressive  look  of  gratitude, 
and  with  a  modest  frankness  in  her  countenance,  which 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  143 

seemed  to  say,  "  I  would  tell  you  and  welcome  what  I  want 
to  do  with  the  guinea  —  but  I  am  not  used  to  speak  before 
so  many  people ;  when  you  come  to  our  cottage  again,  you 
shall  know  all." 

When  Susan  had  departed,  Miss  Somers  turned  to  the 
obliging  shopkeeper,  who  was  folding  up  all  the  things  he 
had  opened.  "You  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  with 
us,  sir,"  said  she  ;  "  and  since  Susan  will  not  choose  a  gown 
for  herself,  I  must."  She  selected  the  prettiest ;  and,  while 
the  man  was  rolling  it  in  paper,  she  asked  him  several  ques- 
tions about  Susan  and  her  family,  which  he  was  delighted 
to  answer,  because  he  had  now  an  opportunity  of  saying  as 
much  as  he  wished  in  her  praise. 

"  No  later  back,  ma'am,  than  last  May  morning,"  said 
he,  "  as  my  daughter  Rose  was  telling  us,  Susan  did  a  turn, 
in  her  quiet  way,  by  her  mother,  that  would  not  displease 
you  if  you  were  to  hear  it.  She  was  to  have  been  Queen  of 
the  May,  ladies,  which,  in  our  little  ,village,  among  the 
younger  tribe,  is  a  thing,  ladies,  that  is  thought  of  a  good 
deal ;  but  Susan's  mother  was  ill,  and  Susan,  after  sitting 
up  with  her  all  night,  would  not  leave  her  in  the  morning, 
even  when  they  brought  the  crown  to  her.  She  put  the 
crown  upon  my  daughter  Rose's  head  with  her  own  hands, 
and  to  be  sure  Rose  loves  her  as  well  as  if  she  was  her  own 
sister ;  but  I  do  n't  speak  from  partiality,  for  I  am  no  rela- 
tion whatever  to  the  Prices,  only  a  well-wisher,  as  every  one, 
I  believe,  who  knows  them,  is  —  I'll  send  the  parcel  up  to 
the  Abbey,  shall  I,  ma'am  ?" 

"If  you  please,"  said  Miss  Somers,  "and  let  us  know  as 
soon  as  you  receive  your  new  things  from  town.  You  will, 
I  hope,  find  us  good  customers  and  well-wishers,"  added  she, 
with  a  smile  •  "  for  those  who  wish  well  to  their  neighbours 
surely  deserve  to  have  well-wishers  themselves  " 

A  few  words  may  encourage  the  benevolent  passions,  and 
may  dispose  people  to  live  in  peace  and  happiness  —  a  few 
words  may  set  them  at  variance,  and  may  lead  to  misery 


144  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

and  lawsuits.  Attorney  Case  and  Miss  Somers  were  both 
equally  convinced  of  this,  and  their  practice  was  uniformly 
consistent  with  their  principles. 

But  now  to  return  to  Susan.  She  put  the  bright  guinea 
carefully  into  the  glove,  with  the  twelve  shillings  which  she 
had  received  from  her  companions  on  May-day.  Besides 
this  treasure,  she  calculated  that  the  amount  of  the  bills  for 
bread  could  not  be  less  than  eight  or  nine-and-thirty  shil- 
lings ;  and  as  her  father  was  now  sure  of  a  week's  reprieve, 
she  had  great  hopes  that,  by  some  means  or  other,  it  would 
be  possible  lo  make  up  the  whole  sum  necessary  to  pay  for 
a  substitute.  "  If  that  could  be  done,"  said  she  to  herself, 
"  how  happy  would  my  mother  be !  She  would  be  quite 
stout  again,  for  she  certainly  is  a  great  deal  better  since 
morning,  since  I  told  her  that  father  would  stay  a  week 
longer.  Ah !  but  she  would  not  have  blessed  Attorney  Case 
though,  if  she  had  known  about  my  poor  Daisy  I" 

Susan  took  the  path  that  led  to  the  meadow  by  the  water- 
side, resolved  to  go  by  herself  and  take  leave  of  her  inno- 
cent favourite.  But  she  did  not  pass  by  unperceived ;  her 
little  brothers  were  watching  for  her  return,  and  as  soon  as 
they  saw  her  they  ran  after  her,  and  overtook  her  as  she 
reached  the  meadow. 

"What  did  that  good  lady  want  with  you?"  cried  Wil- 
liam ;  but  looking  up  in  his  sister's. face,  he  saw  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  he  was  silent,  and  walked  on  quietly. 

Susan  saw  her  lamb  by  the  water-side. 

"  Who  are  those  two  men  V  said  William.  "  What  are 
they  going  to  do  with  Daisy  ?" 

The  two  men  were  Attorney  Case  and  the  butcher.  The 
butcher  was  feeling  whether  the  lamb  was  fat. 

Susan  sat  down  upon  the  bank  in  silent  sorrow  ;  her  little* 
brothers  ran  up  to  the  butcher,  and  demanded  whether  he 
was  going  to  do  any  harm  to  the  lamb. 

The  butcher  did  not  answer,  but  the  attorney  replied,  "  It 
is  not  your  sister's  lamb  any  longer,  it's  mine-  -mine  to  all 
intents  and  purposes." 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  145 

"  Yours  I"  cried  the  children,  with  terror ;  "  and  will  you 
kill  it  ?" 

"  That 's  the  butcher's  business." 

The  little  boys  now  burst  into  piercing  lamentations ; 
they  pushed  away  the  butcher's  hand,  they  threw  their  armB 
round  the  neck  of  the  lamb,  they  kissed  its  forehead  —  it 
bleated. 

"  It  will  not  bleat  to-morrow,"  said  "William,  and  he  wept 
bitterly. 

The  butcher  looked  aside,  and  hastily  rubbed  his  eyes 
with  the  corner  of  his  blue  apron. 

The  attorney  stood  unmoved ;  he  pulled  up  the  head  of 
the  lamb,  which  had  just  stooped  to  crop  a  mouthful  of  clo- 
ver. "  I  have  no  time  to  waste,"  said  he  ;  "  butcher,  you  '11 
account  with  me.  If  it 's  fat,  the  sooner  the  better.  I  've 
no  more  to  say."  And  he  walked  off,  deaf  to  the  prayers 
of  the  poor  children. 

As  soon  as  the  attorney  was  out  of  sight,  Susan  rose  from 
the  bank  where  she  was  seated,  came  up  to  her  lamb,  and 
stooped  to  gather  some  of  the  fresh  dewy  trefoil,  to  let  it  eat 
out  of  her  hand  for  the  last  time.  Poor  Daisy  licked  her 
well-known  hand. 

"  Now  let  us  go,"  said  Susan. 

"  1 711  wait  as  long  as  you  please,"  said  the  butcher. 

Susan  thanked  him,  but  walked  away  quickly,  without 
looking  again  at  her  lamb. 

Her  little  brothers  begged  the  man  to  stay  a  few  minutes, 
for  they  had  gathered  a  handful  of  blue  speedwell  and  yel- 
low crowsfoot,  and  they  were  decking  the  poor  animal. 

As  it  followed  the  boys  through  the  village,  the  children 
collected  as  they  passed,  and  the  butcher's  own  son  was 
among  the  number.  Susan's  steadiness  about  the  bad  shil- 
ling was  full  in  this  boy's  memory ;  it  had  saved  him  a 
beating ;  he  went  directly  to  his  father  to  beg  the  life  of 
Busan's  lamb. 

"  I  was  thinking  about  it,  boy,  myself,"  said  the  butcher ; 
10 


146  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

"  it 's  a  sin  to  kill  a  pet  lamb,  I  'm  thinking  —  any  way,  it  *9 
what  I  'm  not  used  to,  and  do  n't  fancy  doing,  and  I  '11  go 
and  say  as  much  to  Attorney  Case  —  but  he  's  a  hard  man  ; 
there 's  but  one  way  to  deal  with  him,  and  that  's  the  way 
I  must  take,  though  so  be  I  shall  be  the  loser  the*3by .  but 
we  '11  say  nothing  to  the  boys,  for  fear  it  might  be  the  thing 
would  not  take,  and  then  it  would  be  worse  again  to  poor 
Susan,  who  is  a  good  girl,  and  always  was,  as  well  she  may, 
being  of  a  good  breed,  and  well  reared  from  the  first. 

"  Come,  lads,  don't  keep  a  crowd  and  a  scandal  about  my 
door,"  continued  he  aloud  to  the  children ;  "  turn  the  lamb 
in  here,  John,  in  the  paddock,  for  to-night,  and  go  your 
ways  home." 

The  crowd  dispersed,  but  murmured,  and  the  butcher 
went  to  the  attorney.  "  Seeing  that  all  you  want  is  a  good, 
fat,  tender  lamb,  for  a  present  for  Sir  Arthur,  as  you  told 
me,"  said  the  butcher ;  "  I  could  let  you  have  what 's  as 
good,  and  better  for  your  purpose." 

"  Better  —  if  it 's  better,  I  'm  ready  to  hear  reason." 

The  butcher  had  a  choice,  tender  lamb,  he  said,  fit  to  eat 
the  next  day ;  and  as  Mr.  Case  was  impatient  to  make  his 
offering  to  Sir  Arthur,  he  accepted  the  butcher's  proposal, 
though  with  such  seeming  reluctance,  that  he  actually 
squeezed  out  of  him,  before  he  would  complete  the  bargain, 
a  bribe  of  a  fine  sweetbread. 

In  the  mean  time,  Susan's  brother  ran  home  to  tell  her 
that  her  lamb  was  put  into  the  paddock  for  the  night ;  this 
was  all  they  knew,  and  even  this  was  some  comfort  to  her. 
Rose,  her  good  friend,  was  with  her,  and  she  had,  before 
her,  the  pleasure  of  telling  her  father  of  his  week's  reprieve ; 
her  mother  was  better,  and  even  said  she  was  determined 
to  sit  up  to  supper  in  her  wicker  arm-chair. 

Susan  was  getting  things  ready  for  supper,  when  little 
William,  who  was  standing  at  the  house-door,  watching  in 
the  dusk  for  his  father's  return,  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  Su- 
san !  if  here  is  not  our  old  man !" 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  147 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  harper,  "  I  have  found  my  way  to 
you ;  the  neighbours  were  kind  enough  to  show  me  where- 
abouts you  lived  ;  for  though  I  did  n't  know  your  name,  they 
guessed  who  I  meant  by  what  I  said  of  you  all." 

Susan  came  to  the  door,  and  the  old  man  was  delighted 
to  hear  her  speak  again. 

" If  it  would  not  be  too  bold,"  said  he,  "I'm  a  stranger 
in  this  part  of  the  country,  and  come  from  afar  off;  my  boy 
has  got  a  bed  for  himself  here  in  the  village,  but  I  ha\e  no 
place  —  could  you  be  so  charitable  as  to  give  an  old  blind 
man  a  night's  lodging  ?" 

Susan  said  she  would  step  and  ask  her  mother,  and  she 
soon  returned  with  an  answer,  that  he  was  heartily  welcome, 
if  he  could  sleep  upon  the  children's  bed,  which  was  but 
small. 

The  old  man  thankfully  entered  the  hospitable  cottage  — 
lie  struck  his  head  against  the  low  roof  as  he  stepped  over 
the  door-sill. 

"  Many  roofs  that  are  twice  as  high  are  not  half  so  good," 
said  he. 

Of  this  he  had  just  had  experience  at  the  house  of  Attor- 
ney Case,  where  he  had  asked,  but  had  been  roughly  refused 
all  assistance  by  Miss  Barbara,  who  was,  according  to  her 
usual  custom,  standing,  staring  at  the  hall-door. 

The  old  man's  harp  was  set  down  in  Farmer  Price's 
kitchen,  and  he  promised  to  play  a  tune  for  the  boys  before 
they  went  to  bed ;  their  mother  giving  them  leave  to  sit  up 
to  supper  with  their  father. 

He  came  home  with  a  sorrowful  countenance  ,*  but  how 
soon  did  it  brighten,  when  Susan,  with  a  smile,  said  to  him, 
"Father,  we've  good  news  for  you  !  good  news  for  us  all! 
You  have  a  whole  week  longer  to  stay  with  us,  and  per- 
haps," continued  she,  putting  her  little  purse  into  his  hands, 
"  perhaps,  with  what 's  here,  and  the  bread-bills,  and  what 
may  somehow  be  got  together  before  a  week's  at  an  end,  we 
may  make  up  the  nine  guineas  for  the  substitute,  as  they 


148  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

sail  him;  wl.o  knows,  dear  mother,  but  we  may  keep  him 
with  us  for  ever?"  As  she  spoke  she  threw  her  arms  round 
her  father,  who  pressed  her  to  his  bosom  without  speaking, 
for  his  heart  was  full.  He  was  some  little  time  before  he 
could  perfectly  believe  that  what  he  heard  was  true :  but 
the  revived  smiles  of  his  wife,  the  noisy  joy  of  his  little 
boys,  and  the  satisfaction  that  shone  in  Susan's  countenance, 
convinced  him  that  he  was  not  in  a  dream. 

As  they  sat  down  to  supper,  the  old  harper  was  mad 
welcome  to  his  share  of  the  cheerful,  though  frug* 
meal. 

Susan's  father,  as  soon  as  supper  was  finished,  even  before 
he  would  let  the  harper  play  a  tune  for  his  boys,  opened  the 
little  purse  which  Susan  had  given  to  him ;  he  was  sur- 
prised at  the  sight  of  the  twelve  shillings,  and  still  more 
wh*»n  he  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  purse,  to  see  the  brigh* 
gol/Jen  guinea. 

"  How  did  you  come  by  all  this  money  ?"  said  he. 

"  Honestly  and  handsomely,  that  I  'm  sure  of  beforehand," 
said  her  proud  mother ;  "  but  how  I  can't  make  out,  except 
by  the  baking.     Hey,  Susan,  is  this  your  first  baking  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  said  her  father,  "  I  have  her  first  baking 
snug  here,  besides,  in  my  pocket.  I  kept  it  for  a  surprise, 
to  do  your  mother's  heart  good,  Susan.  Here 's  twenty-nine 
shillings  ;  and  the  Abbey  bill,  which  is  not  paid  yet,  comes 
to  ten  more.  What  think  you  of  this,  wife  ?  Have  we  not 
a  right  to  be  proud  of  our  Susan  ?  Why,"  continued  he, 
turning  to  the  harper,  "  I  ask  your  pardon  for  speaking  out 
so  free  before  strangers  in  praise  of  my  own,  which  I  know 
is  not  mannerly  ;  but  the  truth  is  the  fittest  thing  to  be  spo- 
ken, as  I  think,  at  all  times,  therefore  here 's  your  good 
health,  Susan :  why,  by-and-bye  she  '11  be  worth  her  weight 
in  gold  —  in  silver  at  least.  But  tell  us,  child,  how  came 
you  by  all  these  riches  ?  and  how  comes  it  that  I  do  n't  go 
to-morrow?  All  this  happy  news  makes  me  so  gay  myself, 
I  'm  afraid  I  shall  hardly  understand  it  rightly.    But  speak 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  149 

an,  child  —  first  bringing  us  a  bottle  of  the  good  mead  you 
made  last  night  from  your  own  honey." 

Susan  did  not  much  like  to  tell  the  history  of  her  Guinea- 
hen —  of  the  gown  —  and  of  her  poor  lamb  —  part  of  this 
would  seem  as  if  she  was  vaunting  of  her  own  generosity, 
and  part  of  it  she  did  not  like  to  recollect.  But  her  mother 
pressed  to  know  the  whole,  and  she  related  it  as  simply  as 
she  could.  When  she  came  to  the  story  of  the  lamb,  her 
voice  faltered,  and  everybody  present  was  touched.  The 
old  harper  sighed  once,  and  cleared  his  throat  several  times 
—  he  then  asked  for  his  harp  ;  and,  after  tuning  it  for  a  con- 
siderable time,  he  recollected,  for  he  had  often  fits  of 
absence,  that  he  sent  for  it  to  play  the  tune  he  had  promised 
to  the  boys. 

This  harper  came  from  a  great  distance,  from  the  moun- 
tains of  Wales,  to  contend  with  several  other  competitors 
for  a  prize,  which  had  been  advertised  by  a  a  musical  soci- 
ety about  a  year  before  this  time.  There  was  to  be  a  splen- 
did ball  given  upon  the  occasion  at  Shrewsbury,  which  was 
about  five  miles  from  our  village.  The  prize  was  ten  gui- 
neas for  the  best  performer  on  the  harp,  and  the  prize  was 
now  to  be  decided  in  a  few  days. 

All  this  intelligence  Barbara  had  long  since  gained  from 
her  maid,  who  often  went  to  visit  in  the  town  of  Shrews- 
bury, and  she  had  long  had  her  imagination  inflamed  with 
the  idea  of  this  splendid  music-meeting  and  ball.  Often 
had  she  sighed  to  be  there,  and  often  had  she  revolved  in 
her  mind  schemes  for  introducing  herself  to  some  genteel 
neighbours,  who  might  take  her  to  the  ball  in  their  carriage. 
How  rejoiced,  how  triumphant  was  she,  when  this  very  eve- 
ning, just  about  the  time  when  the  butcher  was  bargaining 
with  her  father  about  Susan's  lamb,  a  livery  servant  from 
the  Abbey  rapped  at  the  door,  and  left  a  card  of  invitation 
for  Mr.  and  Miss  Barbara  Case. 

"  Th<}re,"  cried  Bab,  "  J  and  papa  are  to  dine  and  drink 
tea  at  the  Abbey  to-morrow.     Who  knows?     I  dare  say, 


150  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

when  they  see  that  I  am  not  a  vulgar-looking  person,  arid 
all  that  —  and  it'  I  go  cunningly  to  work  with  Miss  Somers 
—  as  I  shall  —  to  be  sure,  I  dare  say  she  '11  take  me  tG  the 
ball  with  her." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  maid,  "  it 's  the  least  one  may 
expect  from  a  lady  that  demeans  herself  to  visit  Susan  Price, 
and  goes  about  a  shopping  for  her ;  the  least  she  can  do  for 
you  is  to  take  you  in  her  carriage,  which  costs  nothing,  but 
is  just  a  common  civility,  to  a  ball." 

"  Then  pray,  Betty,"  continued  Miss  Barbara,  "  do  n't 
forget  to-morrow,  the  first  thing  you  do,  to  send  off  to 
Shrewsbury  for  my  new  bonnet.  I  must  have  it  to  dine  in 
at  the  Abbey,  or  the  ladies  will  think  nothing  of  me ;  and, 
Betty,  remember  the  mantuamaker  too.  I  must  see  and 
coax  papa  to  buy  me  a  new  gown  against  the  ball.  I  can 
see,  you  know,  something  of  the  fashions  to-morrow  at  the 
Abbey.  I  shall  look  the  ladies  well  over,  I  promise  you.  And, 
Betty,  I  have  thought  of  the  most  charming  present  for 
Miss  Somers :  as  papa  says,  it 's  good  never  to  go  empty- 
handed  to  a  great  house ;  I  '11  make  Miss  Somers,  who  is 
fond,  as  her  maid  told  you,  of  such  things  —  I  '11  make  Miss 
Somers  a  present  of  that  Guinea-hen  of  Susan's;  it's  of  no 
use  to  me,  so  do  you  carry  it  up  early  in  the  morning  to  the 
Abbey,  with  my  compliments.     That 's  the  thing." 

In  full  confidence  that  her  present,  and  her  bonnet,  would 
operate  effectually  in  her  favour,  Miss  Barbara  paid  her 
first  visit  to  the  Abbey.  She  expected  to  see  wonders  ;  she 
was  dressed  in  all  the  finery  which  she  had  heard  from  her 
maid,  who  had  heard  from  the  'prentice  of  a  Shrewsbury 
milliner,  was  the  thing  in  London ;  and  she  was  much  sur- 
prised and  disappointed  when  she  was  shown  into  the  room 
where  the  Misses  Somers,  and  the  ladies  of  the  Abbey,  were 
sitting,  to  see  that  they  did  not,  in  any  one  part  of  their 
dress,  agree  with  the  picture  her  imagination  had  formed 
of  fashionable  ladies.  She  was  embarrassed  when  she  saw 
books,  and  work,  and  drawings  ujr on  the  table ;  and  she 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  151 

began  to  think  that  some  affront  was  meant  to  her,  because 
the  company  did  not  sit  with  their  hands  before  them.  When 
Miss  Somers  endeavoured  to  find  out  conversation  that 
would  interest  her,  and  spoke  of  walks,  and  flowers,  and 
gardening,  of  which  she  was  herself  fond,  Miss  Barbara  still 
thought  herself  undervalued,  and  soon  contrived  to  expose 
her  ignorance  most  completely,  by  talking  of  things  which 
she  did  not  understand. 

Those  who  never  attempt  to  appear  what  they  are  not  — 
those  who  do  not  in  their  manners  pretend  to  anything 
unsuited  to  their  habits  and  situation  in  life,  never  are  iu 
danger  of  being  laughed  at  by  sensible  well-bred  people  of 
any  rank ;  but  affectation  is  the  constant  and  just  object  of 
ridicule. 

Miss  Barbara  Case,  with  her  mistaken  airs  of  gentility, 
aiming  to  be  thought  a  woman  and  a  fine  lady,  while  she 
was  in  reality  a  child,  and  a  vulgar  attorney's  daughter, 
rendered  herself  so  thoroughly  ridiculous,  that  the  good- 
natured  yet  discerning  spectators  were  painfully  divided 
between  their  sense  of  comic  absurdity  and  a  feeling  of 
ehame  for  one  who  could  feel  nothing  for  herself. 

One  by  one  the  ladies  dropped  off —  Miss  Somers  went 
out  of  the  room  for  a  few  minutes  to  alter  her  dress,  as  it 
was  the  custom  of  the  family,  before  dinner.  She  left  a 
portfolio  of  pretty  drawings  and  good  prints  for  Miss  Bar- 
bara's amusement ;  but  Miss  Barbara's  thoughts  were  so 
intent  upon  the  harpers'  ball  that  she  could  not  be  enter- 
tained with  such  trifles. 

How  unhappy  are  those  who  spend  their  time  in  expecta- 
tion !     They  can  never  enjoy  the  present. 

While  Barbara  was  contriving  means  of  interesting  Miss 
Somers  in  her  favour,  she  recollected  with  surprise  that  not 
one  word  hac  yet  been  said  of  her  present  of  the  Guinea- 
hen. 

Mrs.  Betty,  in  the  hurry  of  her  dressing  her  young  lady 
in  the  morning,  had  forgotten  it;  but  it  came  just  while 


152  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

Miss  Somers  was  dressing,  and  the  housekeeper  came  iiiLi 
her  mistress's  room  to  announce  its  arrival. 

"  Ma'am,"  said  she,  "  here 's  a  beautiful  Guinea-hen  just 
come,  with  Miss  Barbara  Case's  compliments  to  you." 

Miss  Somers  knew,  by  the  tone  in  which  the  housekeeper 
delivered  this  message,  that  there  was  something  in  the 
business  which  did  not  perfectly  please  her.  She  made  no 
answer,  in  expectation  that  the  housekeeper,  who  was  a 
woman  of  very  open  temper,  would  explain  her  cause  of 
dissatisfaction.  In  this  she  was  not  mistaken ;  the  house- 
keeper came  close  up  to  the  dressing-table,  and  continued, 
"  I  never  like  to  speak  till  I  'm  sure,  ma'am,  and  I  'm  not 
quite  sure,  to  say  certain,  in  this  case,  ma'am,  but  still  I 
think  it  right  to  tell  you,  which  can't  wrong  anybody,  what 
came  across  my  mind  about  this  same  Guinea-hen,  ma'am, 
and  you  can  inquire  into  it,  and  do  as  you  please  afterward, 
ma'am.  Some  time  ago  we  had  fine  Guinea-fowls  of  our 
own,  and  I  made  bold,  not  thinking,  to  be  sure,  that  all  our 
own  would  die  away  from  us,  as  they  have  done,  to  give  a 
fine  couple  last  Christmas  to  Susan  Price,  and  very  fond 
and  pleased  she  was  at  the  time,  and  I  'm  sure  would  nev\jr 
have  parted  with  the  hen  with  her  good-will ;  but,  if  my 
eyes  do  n't  strangely  mistake,  this  hen  that  comes  from  Miss 
Barbara  is  the  self-same  identical  Guinea-hen  that  I  gave  to 
Susan.  And  how  Miss  Bab  came  by  it,  is  the  thing  that 
puzzles  me.  If  my  boy  Philip  was  at  home,  maybe,  as  he's 
often  at  Mrs.  Price's  (which  I  don't  disapprove),  he  might 
know  the  history  of  the  Guinea-hen.  I  expect  him  home 
this  night,  and,  if  you  have  no  objection,  I  will  bift  the 
affair." 

"  The  shortest  way,  I  should  think,"  said  Henrietta, 
*  would  be  to  ask  Miss  Case  herself  about  it,  which  I  will 
do  this  evening." 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,"  said  the  housekeeper,  coldly,  for 
she  knew  that  Miss  Barbara  was  not  famous  in  the  villag« 
for  speaking  the  truth. 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  153 

Dinner  was  now  served.  Attorney  Case  expected  to  smell 
mint-sauce,  and  as  the  covers  were  taken  from  off  the 
dishes,  looked  around  for  lamb  —  but  no  lamb  appeared. 
He  had  a  dexterous  knack  of  twisting  the  conversation  to 
his  point. 

Sir  Arthur  was  speaking,  when  they  sat  down  to  dinner, 
of  a  new  carving-knife  which  he  lately  had  had  made  for 
his  sister ;  the  attorney  immediately  went  from  carving- 
knives  to  poultry,  thence  to  butcher's  meat :  some  joints,  he 
.observed,  were  much  more  difficult  to  carve  than  others  ;  he 
never  saw  a  man  carve  better  than  the  gentleman  opposite 
him,  who  was  the  curate  of  the  parish.  "  But,  sir,"  said 
the  vulgar  attorney,  "  I  must  make  bold  to  differ  with  you 
in  one  point,  and  I  '11  appeal  to  Sir  Arthur.  Sir  Arthur, 
pray,  may  I  ask,  when  you  carve  a  fore-quarter  of  lamb,  do 
you,  when  you  raise  the  shoulder,  throw  in  salt  or  not?" 

This  well-prepared  question  was  not  lost  upon  Sir  Arthur: 
the  attorney  was  thanked  for  his  intended  present,  but  mor- 
tified and  surprised  to  hear  Sir  Arthur  say  that  it  was  a 
constant  rule  of  his  never  to  accept  of  any  presents  from 
his  neighbours.  "  If  we  were  to  accept  of  a  lamb  from  a 
rich  neighbour  on  my  estate,"  said  he,  "  I  am  afraid  we 
should  mortify  many  of  our  poor  tenants,  who  can  have  little 
to  offer,  though,  perhaps,  they  may  bear  us  thorough  good- 
will notwithstanding." 

After  the  ladies  left  the  dining-room,  as  they  were  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  large  hall,  Miss  Barbara  had  a  fair 
opportunity  of  imitating  her  keen  father's  method  of  con- 
versing. One  of  the  ladies  observed,  that  "this  hall  would 
be  a  charming  place  for  music  ;"  Bab  brought  in  harps,  and 
harpers,  and  the  harpers'  ball  in  a  breath.  "  I  know  so 
much  about  it  —  about  the  ball,  I  mean,"  said  she,  "  because 
a  lady  in  Shrewsbury,  a  friend  of  papa's,  offered  to  take  me 
with  her,  but  papa  did  not  like  to  give  her  the  trouble  of 
sending  so  far  for  me,  though  she  has  a  coach  of  her  own." 

Barbara  fixed  her  ejes  upon  Miss  Somers  as  she  spoke, 


154  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

but  she  could  not  read  her  countenance  as  distinctly  as  she 
wished,  because  Miss  Somers  was  at  this  moment  letting 
down  the  veil  of  her  hat. 

"  Shall  we  walk  out  before  tea  1"  said  she  to  her  compa- 
nions.    "  I  have  a  pretty  Guinea-hen  to  show  you." 

Barbara,  secretly  drawing  propitious  omens  from  tho 
Guinea-hen,  followed  with  a  confidential  step. 

The  pheasantry  was  well  filled  with  pheasants,  peacocks, 
&c,  and  Susan's  pretty  little  Guinea-hen  appeared  well, 
even  in  this  high  company  —  it  was  much  admired.  Bar- 
bara was  in  glory,  but  her  glory  was  of  short  duration.  Just 
as  Miss  Somers  was  going  to  inquire  into  the  Guinea-hen's 
history,  Philip  came  up,  to  ask  permission  to  have  a  bit  of 
sycamore  to  turn  a  nutmeg-box  for  his  mother. 

Philip  was  an  ingenious  lad,  and  a  good  turner  for  his 
age ;  Sir  Arthur  had  put  by  a  bit  of  sycamore  on  purpose 
for  him,  and  Miss  Somers  told  him  where  it  was  to  be  found. 
He  thanked  her ;  but  in  the  midst  of  his  bow  of  thanks,  his 
eye  was  struck  by  the  sight  of  the  Guinea-hen,  and  he 
involuntarily  exclaimed,  "  Susan's  Guinea-hen,  I  declare  V* 

"No,  it's  not  Susan's  Guinea-hen/'  said  Miss  Barbara, 
colouring  furiously.  "  It  is  mine,  and  I  've  made  a  present 
of  it  to  Miss  Somers." 

At  the  sound  of  Bab's  voice  Philip  turned  —  saw  her  — 
and  indignation,  unrestrained  by  the  presence  of  all  the 
amazed  spectators,  flashed  in  his  countenance. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Philip?"  said  Miss  Somers,  in  a 
pacifying  tone :  but  Philip  was  not  inclined  to  be  pacified. 

"Why,  Ma'am,"  said  he,  "  may  I  speak  out?"  and  with- 
out waiting  for  permission,  he  spoke  out,  and  gave  a  full, 
true,  and  warm  account  of  Rose's  embassy,  and  of  Miss 
Barbara's  cruel  <«id  avaricious  proceedings. 

Barbara  denied,  prevaricated,  stammered,  and  at  last  was 
overcome  with  confusion,  for  which  even  the  most  indulgent 
spectators  could  scarcely  pity  her. 

Miss  Somers,  however,  mindful  of  what  was  due  to  hw 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  155 

guest,  was  anxious  to  despatch  Philip  for  his  piece  of  syca- 
more. 

Bab  recovered  herself  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight ;  but 
she  further  exposed  herself  by  exclaiming,  "I'm  sure  1 
wish  this  pitiful  Guinea-hen  had  never  come  into  my  posses- 
sion. I  wish  Susan  had  kept  it  at  home,  as  she  should  have 
done !" 

"Perhaps  she  will  be  more  careful,  now  that  she  Las 
received  so  strong  a  lesson,"  said  Miss  Somers.  "  Shall  we 
try  her?"  continued  she  ;  "  Philip  will,  I  dare  say,  take  the 
Guinea-hen  back  to  Susan,  if  we  desire  it." 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,"  said  Barbara,  sullenly  ;  "  I  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  it." 

So  the  Guinea-hen  was  delivered  to  Philip,  who  set  off 
joyfully  with  his  prize,  and  was  soon  in  sight  of  Farmer 
Price's  cottage. 

He  stopped  when  he  came  to  the  door ;  he  recollected 
Rose,  and  her  generous  friendship  for  Susan  ;  he  was  deter* 
mined  that  she  should  have  the  pleasure  of  restoring  the 
Guinea-hen  ;  he  ran  into  the  village  ;  all  the  children  who 
had  given  up  their  little  purse  on  May-day  were  assembled 
on  the  play-green ;  they  were  delighted  to  see  the  Guinea- 
hen  once  more.  Philip  took  his  pipe  and  tabour,  and  they 
marched  in  innocent  triumph  towards  the  white-washed  cot- 
tage. 

"  Let  me  come  with  you  —  let  me  come  with  you,"  said 
the  butcher's  boy  to  Philip.  "  Stop  one  minute !  my  father 
has  something  to  say  to  you." 

He  darted  into  his  father's  house.  The  little  procession 
stopped,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  bleating  of  a  lamb  was 
heard.  Through  a  back  passage  which  led  into  the  paddock 
behind  the  house  they  saw  the  butcher  leading  a  lamb. 

f  It  is  Daisy !"  exclaimed  Rose.  "  It 's  Daisy  !"  repeated 
all  her  companions.  "  Susan's  lamb  !  Susan's  lamb  !"  and 
there  was  a  universal  shout  of  joy. 

"  Well,  for  my  part,"  said  the  good  butcher,  as  soon  as  he 


156  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

could  be  heard,  "  for  my  part,  I  would  not  be  so  cruel  aa 
Attorney  Case  for  the  whole  world.  These  poor  brute-beasts 
do  n't  know  aforehand  what 's  going  to  happen  to  them  ;  and 
as  for  dying,  it 's  what  we  must  all  do  sometime  or  other ; 
but  to  keep  wringing  the  hearts  of  the  living,  that  have  as 
much  sense  as  one's  self,  is  what  I  call  cruel ;  and  is  not 
this  what  Attorney  Case  has  been  doing  by  poor  Susan  and 
her  whole  family,  ever  since  he  took  a  spite  against  them  ? 
But,  at  any  rate,  here 's  Susan's  lamb  safe  and  sound  ;  I  'd 
have  taken  it  back  sooner,  but  I  was  off  before  day  to  the 
fair,  and  am  but  just  come  back ;  however,  Daisy  has  been 
as  well  off  in  my  paddock  as  he  would  have  been  in  the  field 
by  the  water-side." 

The  obliging  shopkeeper  who  showed  the  pretty  calicoes 
to  Susan  was  now  at  his  door ;  and  when  he  saw  the  lamb, 
heard  that  it  was  Susan's,  and  learned  its  history,  he  said 
that  he  would  add  his  mite,  and  he  gave  the  children  some 
ends  of  narrow  riband,  with  which  Rose  decorated  her 
friend's  lamb. 

The  pipe  and  tabour  now  once  more  began  to  play,  and 
the  procession  moved  on  in  joyful  order,  after  giving  the 
humane  butcher  three  cheers  —  three  cheers  which  were 
better  deserved  than  "  loud  huzzas  "  usually  are. 

Susan  was  working  in  her  arbour,  with  her  little  deal 
table  before  her :  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  the  mu^ic, 
she  put  down  her  work  and  listened ;  she  saw  the  crowd  of 
children  coming  nearer  an  I  nearer :  they  had  closed  round 
Daisy,  so  that  she  could  not  see  it,  but  as  they  came  up  to 
the  garden-gate  she  saw  Rose  beckon  to  her.  Philip  played 
as  loud  as  he  could,  that  she  might  not  hear,  till  the  proper 
moment,  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

Susan  opened  the  garden-wicket,  and  at  this  signal  the 
crowd  divided,  and  the  first  thing  that  Susan  saw  in  the 
midst  of  her  taller  friends  was  little  smiling  Mary,  with  the 
Guinea-hen  in  her  arms. 

"  Come  on !  come  on  !"  cried  Mary,  as  Susan  started  with 
joyful  surprise,  "  you  have  more  to  Bee." 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  157 

At  this  instant  the  music  paused  ;  Susan  heard  the  bleat- 
ing of  a  lamb,  and  scarcely  daring  to  believe  her  senses, 
she  pressed  eagerly  forward,  and  beheld  poor  Daisy !  -  she 
burst  into  tears. 

"  I  did  not  shed  one  tear  when  I  parted  with  you,  my 
dear  little  Daisy !"  said  she ;  "  it  was  for  my  father  and 
mother ;  I  would  not  have  parted  with  you  for  anything  else 
in  the  whole  world.  Thank  you,  thank  you  all,"  added  she 
to  her  companions,  who  sympathized  in  her  joy  even  more 
than  they  had  sympathized  in  her  sorrow.  "  Now,  if  my 
father  was  not  to  go  away  from  us  next  week,  and  if  my 
mother  was  quite  stout,  I  should  be  the  happiest  person  in 
the  world !" 

As  Susan  pronounced  these  words,  a  voice  behind  the 
listening  crowd  cried,  in  a  brutal  tone,  "  Let  us  pass,  if  you 
please ;  you  have  no  right  to  stop  up  the  public  road !" 
This  was  the  voice  of  Attorney  Case,  who  was  returning 
with  his  daughter  Barbara  from  his  visit  to  the  Abbey.  He 
saw  the  lamb,  and  tried  to  whistle  as  he  passed  on  ;  Bar- 
bara also  saw  the  Guinea-hen,  and  turned  her  head  another 
way,  that  she  might  avoid  the  contemptuous,  reproachful 
looks  of  those  whom  she  only  affected  to  despise.  Even  her 
new  bonnet,  in  which  she  had  expected  to  be  so  much 
admired,  was  now  only  serviceable  to  hide  her  face,  and 
conceal  her  mortification. 

"  I  am  glad  she  saw  the  Guinea-hen,"  cried  Rose,  who 
now  held  it  in  her  hands. 

"Ye/'  said  Philip,  "she'll  not  forget  May-day  in  a 
knrry." 

"  Nor  I  neither,  I  hope,"  said  Susan,  looking  round  upon 
her  companions  with  a  most  affectionate  smile ;  "  I  hope, 
while  I  live,  I  shall  never  forget  your  goodness  to  me  last 
May-day.  Now  I  've  my  pretty  Guinea-hen  safe  once  more, 
I  should  think  of  returning  your  money." 

"  No !  no !  no !"  was  the  general  cry.  "  We  do  n't  want 
the  money  —  keep  it,  keep  it —  you  want  it  for  your  father." 


158  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

"  Well,"  said  Susan,  "  I  am  not  too  proud  to  be  obliged. 
I  will  keep  your  money  for  my  father.  Perhaps  some  time 
or  other  I  may  be  able  to  earn — " 

"  Oh,"  interrupted  Philip,  "  do  n't  let  us  talk  of  earning, 
don't  let  us  talk  to  her  of  money  now ;  she  has  not  had  time 
hardly  to  look  at  poor  Daisy  and  her  Guinea-hen.  Come, 
we  had  best  go  about  our  business,  and  let  her  have  them 
all  to  herself." 

The  crowd  moved  away  in  consequence  of  Philip's  con- 
siderate advice ;  but  it  was  observed  that  he  was  the  very 
last  to  stir  from  the  garden-wicket  himself.  He  staid,  first, 
to  inform  Susan  that  it  was  Rose  who  tied  the  ribands  on 
daisy's  head ;  then  he  staid  a  little  longer  to  let  her  into  the 
history  of  the  Guinea-hen,  and  to  tell  her  who  it  was  that 
brought  her  hen  home  from  the  Abbey. 

Rose  held  the  sieve,  and  Susan  was  feeding  her  long-lost 
favourite,  while  Philip  leaned  over  the  wicket  prolonging 
his  narration. 

"Now,  my  pretty  Guinea-hen,  my  naughty  Guinea-hen , 
that  flew  away  from  me,  you  shall  never  serve  me  so  again 
—  I  must  cut  your  nice  wings,  but  I  won't  hurt  you." 

"  Take  care,"  cried  Philip  ;  "  you  'd  better,  indeed  you  'd 
better  let  me  hold  her  while  you  cut  her  wings." 

When  this  operation  was  successfully  performed,  which 
it  certainly  could  never  have  been  if  Philip  had  not  held  tho 
hen  for  Susan,  he  recollected  that  his  mother  had  sent  him 
with  a  message  to  Mrs.  Price. 

This  message  led  to  another  quarter  of  an  hour's  delay, 
for  he  had  the  whole  history  of  the  Guinea-hen  to  tell  over 
again  to  Mrs.  Price ;  and  the  farmer  himself  luckily  came 
in  while  it  was  going  on,  so  it  was  but  civil  to  begin  it 
afresh  ;  and  then  the  farmer  was  so  rejoiced  to  see  his  Susan 
so  happy  again  with  her  two  little  favourites,  that  he  de- 
clared he  must  see  Daisy  fed  himself;  and  Philip  found  that 
he  was  wanted  to  hold  the  jug  full  of  milk,  out  of  which 
Farmer  Price  filled  the  pan  for  Daisy  —  happy  Daisy !  who 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  159 

lapped  at  his  ease,  while  Susan  caressed  him,  and  thanked 
her  fond  father  and  her  pleased  mother. 

"  But  Philip,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  "  I  '11  hold  the  jug  —  you'll 
be  late  with  your  message  to  your  mother ;  we  '11  not  detain 
you  any  longer/' 

Philip  departed,  and  as  he  went  out  of  the  garden-wicket 
he  looked  up,  and  saw  Bab  and  her  maid  Betty  staring  out 
of  the  window,  as  usual ;  and  on  this  he  immediately  turned 
back  to  try  whether  he  had  shut  the  gate  fast,  lest  the  Gui- 
nea-hen might  stray  out,  and  fall  again  into  the  hands  of 
the  enemy. 

Miss  Barbara  in  the  course  of  this  day  had  felt  conside- 
rable mortification,  but  no  contrition.  She  was  vexed  that 
her  meanness  was  discovered,  but  she  felt  no  desire  to  cure 
herself  of  any  of  her  faults.  The  ball  was  still  uppermost 
in  her  vain  selfish  soul. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  to  her  confidant  Betty,  "  you  hear  how 
things  have  turned  out ;  but  if  Miss  Somers  won't  think  of 
asking  me  to  go  with  her,  I  've  a  notion  I  know  who  will  — 
as  papa  says,  it 's  a  good  thing  to  have  two  strings  to  one's 
bow." 

Now  some  officers  who  were  quartered  at  Shrewsbury  had 
become  acquainted  with  Mr.  Case ;  they  had  gotten  into 
some  quarrel  with  a  tradesman  in  the  town,  and  Attorney 
Case  had  promised  to  bring  them  through  the  affair,  as  the 
man  threatened  to  take  the  law  of  them.  Upon  the  faith 
of  this  promise,  and  with  the  vain  hope  that  by  civility  they 
might  dispose  him  to  bring  in  a  reasonable  bill  of  costs,  these 
officers  sometimes  invited  Mr.  Case  to  the  mess ;  and  one  of 
them,  who  had  lately  been  married,  prevailed  upon  his  bride 
sometimes  to  take  a  little  notice  of  Miss  Barbara.  It  was 
with  this  lady  that  Miss  Barbara  now  hoped  to  go  to  the 
harpers'  ball. 

"  The  officers  and  Mrs.  Strathspey,  or  more  properly  Mrs. 
Strathspey  and  the  officers,  are  to  breakfast  here  to-morrow, 
do  you  knaw  ?"  said  Bab  to  Betty.     "  One  of  them  dined  at 


160  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

the  Abbey  to-day,  and  told  papa  they  'd  all  come  ;  they  are 
going  out  on  a  party  somewhere  into  the  country,  and  break- 
fast here  in  their  way.  Pray,  Betty,  do  n't  forget  that  Mrs. 
Strathspey  can't  breakfast  without  honey ;  I  heard  her  say 
so  myself." 

"  Then,  indeed,"  said  Betty,  "  I  'm  afraid  Mrs.  Strathspey 
will  be  likely  to  go  without  her  breakfast  here,  for  not  a 
spoonful  of  honey  have  we,  let  her  long  for  it  ever  so  much." 

" But  surely,"  said  Bab,  "we  can  contrive  to  get  some 
honey  in  the  neighbourhood." 

"  There 's  none  to  be  bought  as  I  know  of,"  said  Betty. 

"  But  is  there  none  to  be  begged  or  borrowed  ?"  said  Bab, 
laughing.  "  Do  you  forget  Susan's  beehive  ?  Step  over  to 
her  in  the  morning,  with  my  compliments,  and  see  what  you 
can  do  —  tell  her  it  is  for  Mrs.  Strathspey." 

In  the  morning  Betty  went  with  Miss  Barbara's  compli- 
ments to  Susan,  to  beg  some  honey  for  Mrs.  Strathspey,  who 
could  not  breakfast  without  it. 

Susan  did  not  like  to  part  with  her  honey,  because  her 
mother  loved  it,  and  she  therefore  gave  Betty  but  a  small 
quantity:  when  Barbara  saw  how  little  Susan  sent,  she 
called  her  a  miser,  and  said  she  must  have  some  more  for 
Mrs.  Strathspey. 

"  I  '11  go  myself  and  speak  to  her ;  come  you  with  me, 
Betty,"  said  the  young  lady,  who  found  it  at  present  conve- 
nient to  forget  her  having  declared,  the  day  that  she  sucked 
up  the  broth,  that  she  never  would  honour  Susan  with  ano- 
ther visit. 

"  Susan,"  said  she,  accosting  the  poor  girl  whom  she  had 
done  everything  in  her  power  to  injure,  "  I  must  beg  a  little 
more  honey  from  you  for  Mrs.  Strathspey's  breakfast.  You 
know,  on  a  particular  occasion,  such  as  this,  neighbours 
must  help  one  another." 

"  To  be  sure  they  should,"  added  Betty. 

Susan,  though  she  was  generous,  was  not  weak ;  she  was 
willing  to  give  to  those  she  loved,  but  not  disposed  to  let 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  161 

anything  be  taken  from  her,  or  coaxed  out  of  her  by  those 
she  had  reason  to  despise.  She  civilly  answered  that  sht- 
was  sorry  she  had  no  more  honey  to  spare.  Barbara  grew 
angry,  and  lost  all  command  of  herself,  when  she  saw  that 
Susan,  without  regarding  her  reproaches,  went  on  looking 
through  the  glass  pane  in  the  beehive.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what, 
Susan  Price,"  said  she,  in  a  high  tone,  "  the  honey  I  will 
have,  so  you  may  as  well  give  it  to  me  by  fair  means.  Yes 
01  no?  Speak!  will  you  give  it  me  or  not?  will  you  give 
that  piece  of  the  honeycomb  that  lies  there  ?" 

"  That  bit  of  honeycomb  is  for  my  mother's  breakfast," 
said  Susan  ;  "  I  cannot  give  it  you." 

"  Can't  you !"  said  Bab ;  "  then  see  if  I  do  n't  get  it." 

She  stretched  across  Susan  for  the  honeycomb,  which  was 
lying  by  some  rosemary-leaves  that  Susan  had  freshly  gath- 
ered for  her  mother's  tea.  Bab  grasped,  but  at  her  first 
effort  she  reached  only  the  rosemary :  she  made  a  second 
dart  at  the  honeycomb,  and  in  her  struggle  to  obtain  it  sb<» 
overset  the  beehive.  The  bees  swarmed  about  her  -  ne.* 
maid  Betty  screamed,  and  ran  away.  Susan,  who  wa»'  snei- 
tered  by  a  laburnum-tree,  called  to  Barbara,  upon  whom  the 
black  clusters  of  bees  were  now  settling,  and  begged  her  to 
stand  still,  and  not  to  beat  them  away.  —  "If  you  stami 
quietly,  you  won't  be  stung,  perhaps."  But,  instead  oi 
standing  quietly,  Bab  buffeted,  and  stamped,  and  roared, 
and  the  bees  stung  her  terribly;  her  arms  and  her  iaco 
swelled  in  a  frightful  manner.  She  was  helped  home  hy 
poor  Susan  and  treacherous  Mrs.  Betty,  who,  now  the  mis- 
chief was  done,  thought  only  of  exculpating  herself  to  her 
master. 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Barbara,"  said  she,  "  this  was  quite  wron*» 
of  you  to  go  and  get  yourself  into  such  a  scrape.  1  Sxiat. 
be  turned  away  for  it,  you  '11  see." 

"  I  do  n't  care  whether  you  are  turned  away  or  not,"  said 
Barbara.  "  I  never  felt  such  pain  in  my  life.  Can't  you 
do  something  for  me  ?  I  do  n't  mind  the  pain  either,  so 
11 


162  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

much  as  being  such  a  fright.  Pray,  how  am  I  ib  •  fit 
to  be  seen  at  breakfast  by  Mrs.  Strathspey  ?  and  I  stippoBe 
I  can't  go  to  the  ball  either,  to-morrow,  after  all  I" 

"  No,  that  you  can't  expect  to  do,  indeed,"  said  Becty  the 
comforter.  "  You  need  not  think  of  balls,  for  those  lumps 
and  swellings  won't  go  off  your  face  this  week.  That 's  not 
what  pains  me,  but  I  'm  thinking  of  what  your  papa  will 
say  to  me  when  he  sees  you,  miss." 

While  this  amiable  mistress  and  maid  were  in  their  iidv^r 
sity,  reviling  one  another,  Susan,  when  she  saw  that  sue 
could  be  of  no  further  use,  was  preparing  to  depart,  but  at 
the  house-door  she  was  met  by  Mr.  Case. 

Mr.  Case  had  revolved  things  in  his  mind,  for  hi3  second 
visit  at  the  Abbey  pleased  him  as  little  as  his  first,  from  a 
few  words  Sir  Arthur  and  Miss  Somers  dropped  in  speaking 
of  Susan  and  Farmer  Price.  Mr.  Case  began  to  fear  that 
he  had  mistaken  his  game  in  quarrelling  with  this  family. 
The  refusal  of  his  present  dwelt  upon  the  attorney's  mind, 
and  he  was  aware  that,  if  the  history  of  Susan's  lamb  ever 
reached  the  Abbey,  he  was  undone ;  he  now  thought  that 
the  most  prudent  course  he  could  possibly  follow  would  be 
to  hush  up  matters  with  the  Prices  with  all  convenient  speed. 
Consequently,  when  he  met  Susan  at  his  door,  he  forced  a 
gracious  smile. 

"  How  is  your  mother,  Susan  ?"  said  he.  "  Is  there  any- 
thing in  our  house  can  be  of  service  to  her?  I'm  glad  to 
see  you  here.  Barbara !  Barbara !  Bab  I"  cried  he  ;  "  come 
down-stairs,  child,  and  speak  to  Susan  Price."  And,  as  no 
Barbara  answered,  her  father  stalked  up-stairs  directly, 
opened  the  door,  and  stood  amazed  at  the  spectacle  of  ho* 
swelled  visage. 

Betty  instantly  began  to  tell  the  story  her  own  way.  Bab 
contradicted  her  as  fast  as  she  spoke.  The  attorney  turned 
the  maid  away  upon  the  spot ;  and  partly  with  real  anger, 
and  partly  with  politic  affectation  of  anger,  he  demanded 
from  his  daughter  how  she  dared  to  treat  Susan  Price  so  ill : 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  163 

\T  hen  she  was  so  neighbourly  and  obliging  as  to  give  you 
o„jie  of  her  honey,  could  n't  you  be  content  without  seizing 
:Don  the  honeycomb  by  force  ?  This  is  scandalous  beha- 
viour, and  what,  I  assure  you,  I  can't  countenance." 

Susan  now  interceded  for  Barbara ;  and  the  attorney, 
ejoitening  his  voice,  said  that  Susan  was  a  great  deal  toe 
<ood  to  her,  "  as  indeed  you  are,  Susan,"  added  he,  "to  e^ery 
oody.     I  forgive  her  for  your  sake." 

Susan  courtesied  in  great  surprise,  but  her  lamb  could  not 
be  forgotten ;  and  she  left  the  attorney's  house  as  soon  as 
she  could,  to  make  her  mother's  rosemary-tea  for  breakfast. 

Mr.  Case  saw  that  Susan  was  not  so  simple  as  to  be  taken 
in  by  a  few  fair  words.  His  next  attempt  was  to  conciliate 
Farmer  Price  ;  the  farmer  was  a  blunt,  honest  man,  and  his 
countenance  remained  inflexibly  contemptuous,  when  the 
attorney  addressed  him  in  the  softest  tone. 

So  stood  matters  the  day  of  the  long-expected  harpers' 
ball.  Miss  Barbara  Case,  stung  by  Susan's  bees,  could  not, 
after  all  her  manoeuvres,  go  with  Mrs.  Strathspey  to  the 
ball. 

The  ballroom  was  filled  early  in  the  evening ;  there  was 
a  numerous  assembly ;  the  harpers  who  contended  for  the 
prize  were  placed  under  the  music-gallery  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  room ;  among  them  was  our  old  blind  friend,  who, 
as  he  was  not  so  well  clad  as  his  competitors,  seemed  to  be 
disdained  by  many  of  the  spectators.  Six  ladies  ana  six 
gentlemen  were  now  appointed  to  be  judges  of  the  perform- 
ance. They  were  seated  in  a  semicircle  opposite  to  the 
harpers.  The  Misses  Somers,  who  were  fond  of  music,  were 
among  the  ladies  in  the  semicircle,  and  the  prize  was  lodged 
in  the  hands  of  Sir  Arthur.  There  was  now  silence.  The 
first  harp  sounded,  and  as  each  musician  tried  his  skill,  the 
audience  seemed  to  think  that  each  deserved  the  prize.  The 
old  blind  man  was  the  last ;  he  tuned  his  instrument,  and 
such  a  simple,  pathetic  strain  was  heard,  as  touched  every 
heart.     All  were  fixed  in  delighted  attention,  and  when  the 


164  SIMPLE    SUSAN. 

music  ceased,  the  silence  for  some  moments  continued.  The 
silence  was  followed  by  a  universal  buzz  of  applause.  The 
judges  were  unanimous  in  their  opinions,  and  it  was  declared, 
that  the  old  blind  harper,  who  played  the  last,  deserved  the 
prize. 

The  simple,  pathetic  air  which  won  the  suffrages  of  the 
whole  assembly,  was  his  own  composition ;  he  was  pressed 
to  .give  the  words  belonging  to  the  music,  and  at  last  he 
modestly  offered  to  repeat  them,  as  he  could  not  see  to  write. 
Miss  Somers's  ready  pencil  was  instantly  produced,  and  the 
old  harper  dictated  the  words  of  his  ballad,  which  he  called, 
"  Susan's  Lamentation  for  her  Lamb." 

Miss  Somers  looked  at  her  brother  from  time  to  time  as 
she  wrote ;  and  Sir  Arthur,  as  soon  as  the  old  man  had 
finished,  took  him  aside  and  asked  him  some  questions, 
which  brought  the  whole  history  of  Susan's  lamb  and  of 
Attorney  Case's  cruelty  to  light. 

The  attorney  himself  was  present  when  the  harper  began 
to  dictate  his  ballad;  his  colour,  as  Sir  Arthur  steadily 
looked  at  him ,  varied  continually ;  till  at  length,  when  he 
heard  the  words,  "  Susan's  Lamentation  for  her  Lamb/'  he 
suddenly  shrank  back,  skulked  through  the  crowd,  and  dis- 
appeared. "Vv~e  shall  not  follow  him,  we  had  rather  follow 
our  old  friend  the  victorious  harper. 

No  sooner  had  he  received  the  ten  guineas,  his  well-mer- 
ited prize,  than  he  retired  into  a  small  room  belonging  to 
the  people  of  the  house,  asked  for  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and 
dictated  in  a  low  voice  to  his  boy,  who  was  a  tolerably  good 
scribe,  >  letter,  which  he  ordered  him  to  put  directly  into 
the  Shrewsbury  post-office ;  the  boy  ran  with  the  letter  to 
the  posiroiiice  :  he  was  but  just  in  time,  for  the  postman's 
horn  was  sounding. 

The  >jb&£  morning,  when  Farmer  Price,  his  wife,  and  Su- 
san wet  c  sitting  together,  reflecting  that  his  week's  leave  of 
absenc.  was  nearly  at  an  end,  and  that  the  money  was  not 
yet  ma^jf  ap  for  John  Simpson,  a  substitute,  a  knock  was 
heard  at  the  door,  and  the  person  who  usually  delivered  the 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  165 

otters  in  the  village  put  a  letter  into  Susan's  hand,  saying, 
"  A  penny,  if  you  please  —  here 's  a  letter  for  your  father/' 

"  For  me  \"  said  Farmer  Price  ;  "  here 's  the  penny  then ; 
tut  who  can  it  be  from,  I  wonder ;  who  can  think  of  writing 
to  me  in  this  world  ?"  He  tore  open  the  letter,  but  the  hard 
uarae  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  puzzled  him,  "  your  obliged 
friend — Llewellyn."  "And  what's  this?"  said  he,  open- 
ing a  paper  that  was  enclosed  in  the  letter;  "it's  a  song, 
seemingly ;  it  must  be  somebody  that  has  a  mind  to  make 
an  April  fool  of  me." 

"  Bat  it  is  not  April,  it  is  May,  father,"  said  Susan. 

"  Well,  let  us  read  the  letter,  and  we  shall  come  at  the 
truth  —  all  in  good  time." 

Farmer  Price  sat  down  in  his  own  chair,  for  he  could  not 
read  entirely  to  his  satisfaction  in  any  other,  and  read  as 
follows : — 

"My  worthy  Friend, 
"lam  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  have  had  good 
success  this  night.  I  have  won  the  ten-guinea  prize,  and 
for  that  I  am  in  a  great  measure  indebted  to  your  sweet 
daughter  Susan,  as  you  will  see  l>y  a  little  ballad  I  enclose 
for  her.  Your  hospitality  to  me  has  afforded  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  learning  some  of  your  family  history.  You  do 
not,  I  hope,  forget  that  I  was  present  when  you  were  count- 
ing the  treasure  in  Susan's  little  purse,  and  that  I  heard  for 
what  purpose  it  was  all  destined.  You  have  not,  I  know, 
yet  made  up  the  full  sum  for  the  substitute,  John  Simpson ; 
therefore  do  me  the  favour  to  use  the  five-guinea  bank-note, 
which  you  will  find  within  the  ballad.  You  shall  not  find 
me  as  hard  a  creditor  as  Attorney  Case.  Pay  me  the  money 
afc  your  own  convenience ;  if  it  is  never  convenient  to  you 
to  pay  it,  I  shall  never  ask  it.  I  shall  go  my  rounds  again 
through  this  country,  I  believe,  about  this  time  next  year, 
and  will  call  to  see  how  you  do,  and  to  play  the  new  tun© 
for  Susan  and  the  dear  little  bovs. 


166  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

"I  shall  just  add,  to  set  your  heart  at  rest  about  the 
money,  that  it  does  not  distress  me  at  all  to  lend  it  to  you : 
I  am  not  quite  so  poor  as  I  appear  to  be  ,  but  it  is  my 
humour  to  go  about  as  I  do.  I  see  more  of  the  world  under 
my  tattered  garb  than,  perhaps,  I  should  see  in  a  better 
dress.  There  are  many  of  my  profession  who  are  of  the 
game  mind  as  myself  in  this  respect ;  and  we  are  glad,  when 
it  lays  in  our  way,  to  do  any  kindness  to  such  a  worthy 
family  as  yours.     So  fare  ye  well. 

"Your  obliged  friend, 

"  Llewellyn." 

Susan  now,  by  her  father's  desire,  opened  the  ballad ;  he 
picked  up  the  five-guinea  bank-note,  while  she  read  with 
surprise,  "  Susan's  Lamentation  for  her  Lamb."  Her 
mother  leaned  over  her  shoulder  to  read  the  words,  but  they 
were  interrupted,  before  they  had  finished  the  first  stanza, 
by  another  knojk  at  the  door.  It  was  not  the  postman  with 
-another  letter ;  it  was  Sir  Arthur  and  his  sisters. 

They  came  with  an  intention,  which  they  were  much  dis- 
appointed to  find  that  the  old  harper  had  rendered  vain  — 
they  came  to  lend  the  farmer  and  his  good  family  the  money 
to  pay  for  his  substitute. 

"  But,  since  we  are  here,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  "  let  me  do 
my  own  business,  which  I  had  like  to  have  forgotten.  Mr. 
Price,  will  you  come  out  with  me,  and  let  me  show  you  a 
piece  of  your  land,  through  which  I  want  to  make  a  road? 
Look  there,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  pointing  to  the  spot,  "I  am 
laying  out  a  ride  round  my  estate,  and  that  bit  or  land  of 
ycurs  stops  me." 

"  "Why  so,  sir?"  said  Price :  "  the  land's  mine  to  be  sure, 
for  that  matter ;  but  I  hope  you  do  n't  look  upon  me  to  be 
that  sort  of  person  that  would  be  stiff  about  a  trifle  or  so." 

"Why."  said  Sir  Arthur,  "I  had  heard  you  were  a  liti- 
gious, pi  £  V  taded  fellow;  but  you  do  not  seem  to  deserve 
this  character." 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  167 

*  Hope  not,  6ir,"  said  the  farmer ;  "  but  about  the  matter 
of  the  land,  I  do  n't  want  to  make  no  advantage  of  your 
wishing  for  it ;  you  are  welcome  to  it,  and  I  leave  it  to  you 
to  find  me  out  another  bit  of  land  convenient  to  me,  that 
will  be  worth  neither  more  nor  leas,  or  else  to  make  up  the 
value  to  me  some  way  or  other.  I  need  say  no  more  about 
it." 

*'I  hear  something,"  continued  Sir  Arthur,  after  a  short 
silence,  "  I  hear  something,  Mr.  Price,  of  a  flaw  in  your 
lease.  I  would  not  speak  to  you  of  it  while  we  were  bar- 
gaining about  your  land,  lest  I  should  overawe  you ;  but  tell 
me,  what  is  this  flaw  V 

"  In  truth,  and  the  truth  is  the  fittest  thing  to  be  spoken  at 
all  times,"  said  the  farmer,  "  I  did  n't  know  myself  what  a 
flaw,  as  they  call  it,  meant,  till  I  heard  of  the  word  from 
Attorney  Case ;  and  I  take  it,  a  flaw  is  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  mistake,  as  one  should  say ;  now  by  reason  a 
man  does  not  make  a  mistake  on  purpose,  it  seems  to  me  to 
be  the  fair  thing,  that  if  a  man  finds  out  his  mistake,  he 
might  set  it  right ;  but  Attorney  Case  says,  that  is  not  law, 
and  I  've  no  more  to  say.  The  man  who  drew  up  my  lease 
made  a  mistake,  and  if  I  must  suffer  for  it  I  must,"  said  the 
farmer.  "However,  I  can  show  you,  Sir  Arthur,  just  for 
my  own  satisfaction  and  yours,  a  few  lines  of  a  memoran- 
dum on  a  slip  of  paper,  which  was  given  me  by  your  rela- 
tion, the  gentleman  who  lived  here  before,  and  let  me  my 
farm.  You  '11  see,  by  that  bit  of  paper,  what  was  meant ; 
out  the  attorney  says,  the  paper's  not  worth  a  button  in  a 
court  of  justice,  and  I  do  n't  understand  these  things.  All 
I  understand  is  the  common  honesty  of  the  matter.  I  've 
no  more  to  say." 

"  This  attorney,  whom  you  speak  of  so  often."  fhk1  S? 
Arthur,  "  you  seem  to  have  some  quarrel  with  him.     Now, 
v/oald  you  tell  me  frankly  what  it  the  n  itter  between — n 

'*  The  matter  between  us,  then,"  said  Mr.  Price,  "  is  a  b'ttle 
bit  of  ground,  not  worth  much,  that  there  is  open  to  the 


168  SIMPLE     S  XJ  3  A  'A  . 

lane  at  the  end  of  Mr.  Case's  garden,  sir,  and  he  wntvti  1> 
take  it  in.  Now,  I  told  him  my  mind,  that  it  belonged  to 
the  parish,  and  that  I  never  would  willingly  give  my  consent 
to  his  cribbing  it  in  that  way.  Sir,  I  was  the  more  loath  to 
see  it  shut  into  his  garden,  which  moreover  is  large  enow 
of  all  conscience  without  it,  because  you  must  know,  Sir 
Arthur,  the  children  in  our  village  are  fond  of  making  a 
little  play-green  of  it,  and  they  have  a  custom  of  meeting 
on  May-day  at  a  hawthorn  that  stands  in  the  middle  of  it, 
and  altogether  I  was  very  loath  to  see  'em  turned  out  of  it 
by  those  who  had  no  right." 

"  Let  us  go  and  see  this  nook,"  said  Sir  Arthur ;  "  it  is 
not  far  off,  is  it  V1 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  just  hard-by  here." 

When  they  got  to  the  ground,  Mr.  Case,  who  saw  them 
walking  together,  was  in  a  hurry  to  join  them,  that  he  might 
put  a  stop  to  any  explanations.  Explanations  were  things 
of  which  he  had  a  great  dread,  but  fortunately  he  was  upon 
this  occasion  a  little  too  late. 

"  Is  this  the  nook  in  dispute  ?"  said  Sir  Arthur. 

K  Yes,  this  is  the  whole  thing,"  said  Price. 

"  Why,  Sir  Arthur,  do  n't  let  us  talk  any  more  about  it," 
said  the  politic  attorney,  with  an  assumed  air  of  generosity ; 
V  let  it  belong  to  whom  it  will,  I  give  it  up  to  you." 

"  So  great  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Case,  as  you  are,"  replied  Sir 
Arthur,  "must  know  that  a  man  cannot  give  up  that  to 
which  he  has  no  legal  title  ;  and  in  this  case,  it  is  impossible 
that,  with  the  best  intentions  to  oblige  me  in  the  world,  you 
San  give  up  this  bit  of  land  to  me,  because  it  is  mine  already, 
as  I  can  convince  you  effectually  by  a  map  of  the  adjoining 
land,  which  I  have  fortunately  safe  among  my  papers.  This 
T>"ecc-  of  ground  belonged  to  the  farm  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  road,  and  it  was  cut  off  when  the  lane  was  made." 

"  Very  possibly;  I  dare  say,  you  are  quite  correct:  you 
must  know  best,"  said  the  attorney,  trembling  for  the 
agency. 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  169 

•'Tlun."  flaid  Sir  Arthur,  "Mr.  Price,  you  will  observe 
ib/fcl  I  now  promise  this  little  green  to  the  childrBn,  for  a 
play-ground,  and  I  hope  they  may  gather  hawthorn  many  a 
May-day  at  this  their  favourite  bush." 

Mr.  Price  bowed  low,  which  he  seldom  did,  even  when  he 
received  a  favour  himself. 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Case,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  turning  to  the 
attorney,  who  did  not  know  which  way  to  look,  "  you  sent 
me  a  lease  to  look  over." 

"  Ye — ye — yes,"  stammered  Mr.  Case  ;  "  I  thought  it  my 
duty  to  do  so,  not  out  of  any  malice  or  ill-will  to  this  gocd 
man." 

"  You  have  done  him  no  injury,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  coolly. 
"  I  am  ready  to  make  him  a  new  lease,  whenever  he  pleases, 
of  his  farm  ;  and  I  shall  be  guided  by  a  memorandum  of 
the  original  bargain,  which  he  has  in  his  possession.  I  hope 
I  never  shall,  take  an  unfair  advantage  of  any  one." 

"  Heaven  forbid,  sir  I"  said  the  attorney,  sanctifying  his 
face,  "  that  I  should  suggest  the  taking  an  unfair  advantage 
of  any  man,  rich  or  poor;  but  to  break  a  bad  lease  is  not 
taking  an  unfair  advantage." 

"  You  really  think  so  ?"  said  Sir  Arthur. 

"  Certainly  I  do  —  and  I  hope  I  have  not  hazarded  your 
good  opinion  by  speaking  my  mind  concerning  the  flaw  so 
plainly.  I  always  understood  that  there  could  be  nothing 
ungentlemanlike  in  the  way  of  business  in  taking  advantage 
of  a  flaw  in  a  lease." 

"  Now,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  "  you  have  pronounced  judg- 
ment, undesignedly,  in  your  own  case.  You  intended  to 
send  me  this  poor  man's  lease,  but  your  son,  by  some  mis- 
take, brought  me  your  own,  and  I  have  discovered  a  fatal 
error  in  it." 

"  A  fatal  error 1"  said  the  alarmed  attorney. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Sir  Arthur  pulling  the  lease  out  o*  his 
pocket;  "here  it  is;  you  will  observed  that  it  iti  ne»*heT 
nigned  nor  sealed  by  the  grantor*" 


170  SIMPLE     SUSAN. 

"  But  you  won't  take  advantage  of  me,  surely,  Sir  Arthur," 
said  Mr.  Case,  forgetting  his  own  principles. 

"  I  shall  not  take  advantage  of  you,  as  you  would  have 
taken  of  this  honest  man.  In  both  cases  I  shall  be  guided 
by  memorandums  which  I  have  in  my  possession.  I  shall 
not,  Mr.  Case,  defraud  you  of  one  shilling  of  your  property. 
I  am  ready,  at  a  fair  valuation,  to  pay  the  exact  value  of 
your  house  and  land,  but  upon  this  condition,  that  you  qui 
the  parish  within  one  month." 

Attorney  Case  submitted,  for  he  knew  that  he  could  not 
legally  resist.  He  was  glad  to  be  let  off  so  easily,  and  he 
bowed,  and  sneaked  away,  secretly  comforting  himself  with 
the  hope,  that  when  they  came  to  the  valuation  of  the  house 
and  land,  he  should  be  the  gainer  perhaps  of  a  few  guineas  ; 
his  reputation  he  justly  held  very  cheap. 

"  You  are  a  scholar,  you  write  a  good  hand,  you  can  keep 
accounts,  can't  you?"  said  Sir  Arthur  to  Mr.  Price,  as  they 
walked  h>>me  towards  his  cottage. 

"  I  think  I  saw  a  bill  of  your  little  daughter's  drawing 
out  the  other  day,  which  was  very  neatly  written.  Did  you 
teach  her  to  write  V 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Price,  "  f  can't  say  I  did  that,  for  she 
mostly  taught  herself;  but  I  taught  her  a  little  arithmetic, 
as  fai  as  I  knew,  on  our  winter  nights,  when  I  had  nothing 
better  to  do." 

"  Your  daughter  shows  that  she  has  been  well  taught," 
said  Sir  Arthur  ;  "  and  her  good  conduct  and  good  charac- 
ter speak  strongly  in  favour  of  her  parents." 

"  You  are  very  good,  very  good  indeed,  sir,  to  speak  in 
this  sort  of  way,"  said  the  delighted  father. 

"But  I  mean  to  do  more  than  pay  you  with  words"  said 
Sir  Arthur.  "  You  are  attached  to  your  own  family  ;  per- 
haps you  may  become  attached  to  me,  when  you  come  to 
know  me,  and  w  shall  have  frequent  opportunities  of  judg- 
ing of  one  another  \  want  no  agent  to  squeeze  my  tenants, 
or  to  do  my  dir%y  work.     I  only  want  a  steady,  intelligent, 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  171 

honest  man,  like  you,  to  collect  my  rents ;  and  I  hope,  Mr. 
Price,  you  will  have  no  objection  to  the  employment." 

"I  hope,  sir,"  said  Price,  with  joy  and  gratitude  glowing 
in  his  honest  countenance,  "  that  you  '11  never  have  no  cause 
to  repent  your  goodness." 

"And  what  are  my  sisters  about  here?"  said  Sir  Arthur, 
entering  the  cottage,  and  going  behind  his  sisters,  who  were 
busily  engaged  in  measuring  an  extremely  pretty  coloured 
calico. 

"  It  is  for  Susan,  my  dear  brother,"  said  they. 

"  I  knew  she  did  not  keep  that  guinea  for  herself,"  said 
Miss  Somers:  "I  have  just  prevailed  upon  her  mother  to 
tell  me  what  became  of  it.  Susan  gave  it  to  her  father  — 
but  she  must  not  refuse  a  gown  of  our  choosing  this  time, 
and  I  am  sure  she  will  not,  because  her  mother,  I  see,  likes 
it.  And,  Susan,  I  hear  that,  instead  of  being  Queen  of  the 
May  this  year,  you  were  sitting  in  your  sick  mother's  room. 
Your  mother  has  a  little  colour  in  her  cheeks  now." 

"  Oh,  ma'am,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Price,  "  I  'm  quite  well  — 
joy,  I  think,  has  made  me  quite  well." 

"  Then,"  said  Miss  Somers,  "  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to 
come  out  on  your  daughter's  birthday,  which  I  hear  is  the 
25th  of  this  month.  Make  haste  and  get  quite  well  before 
that  day,  for  my  brother  intends  that  all  the  lads  and  lasses 
of  the  village  shall  have  a  dance  on  Susan's  birthday." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  Arthur  ;  "  and  I  hope  on  that  day,  Susan, 
you  will  be  very  happy  with  your  little  friends  upon  their 
play-green.  I  shall  tell  them  that  it  is  your  good  conduct 
which  has  obtained  it  for  them :  and  if  you  have  anything 
to  ask,  any  little  favour  for  any  of  your  companions  which 
we  can  grant,  now  ask,.  Susan ;  these  ladies  look  as  if  they 
would  not  refuse  you  any  thing  that  is  reasonable ;  and  ] 
think  you  look  as  if  you  would  not  ask  anything  unreason- 
able " 

"  Sir,"  said  Susan,  after  consulting  her  mother's  eyes, 
"there  is,  to  be  sure,  a  favour  I  should  like  *o  ask  —  it  is 
for  Roso  " 


172  SIMPLE     P]7S  IH 

"Well,  I  don't  know  who  Rose  is,"  said  Sir  Arthur, 
smiling ;  "  but  go  on." 

"  Ma'am,  you  have  seen  her,  I  believe  ;  shfe  is  a  ;v;y  good 
girl,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Price. 

"And  works  very  neatly  indeed,"  continued  Susan, 
eagerly,  to  Miss  Somers  ;  "  and  shy  and  her  mother  heard 
you  were  looking  out  for  one  to  wait  upon  you." 

"  Say  no  more,"  said  Miss  Somers  ;  "  your  wish  is  granted. 
Tell  Rose  to  come  to  the  Abbey  to-morrow  morning  —  or 
rather  come  with  her  yourself,  for  our  housekeeper,  I  know, 
wants  to  talk  to  you  about  a  certain  cake.  She  wishes,  Su- 
san, that  you  should  be  the  maker  of  the  cake  for  the  dance, 
and  she  has  good  things  looked  out  for  it  already,  I  know. 
It  must  be  large  enough  for  everybody  to  have  a  slice,  and 
the  housekeeper  will  slice  it  for  you.  I  only  hope  youv  cake 
will  be  as  good  as  your  bread.     Fare  ye  well." 

How  happy  are  those  who  bid  farewell  to  a  whole  family 
silent  with  gratitude,  who  will  bless  them  aloud  when  they 
are  far  out  of  hearing ! 

"How  do  I  wish  now,"  said  Farmer  Price,  "and  it fl 
almost  a  sin  for  one  that's  had  such  a  power  of  favours 
done  him  to  wish  for  anything  more  —  but  how  I  do  wish, 
wife,  that  our  good  friend  the  harper  was  only  here  at  this 
time  being ;  it  would  do  his  old  warm  heart  good.  Well, 
the  best  of  it  is,  we  shall  be  able  next  year,  when  he  comes 
his  rounds,  to  pay  him  his  money  with  thanks ;  being  all 
the  time  and  for  ever  as  much  obliged  to  him  as  if  we  kept 
it,  and  wanted  it  as  badly  as  we  did  when  he  gave  it  so 
hand«ome.  I  long,  so  I  do,  to  see  him  in  this  house  again, 
drinking,  as  he  did,  just  in  this  spot,  a  glass  of  Susan.'/! 
mead  to  her  very  good  health." 

"  Yes,"  said  Susan,  "  and  the  next  time  he  comes  I  can 
give  him  one  of  my  Guinea-hen's  eggs,  and  I  shall  show  bins 
my  Iamb  Daisy." 

"True,  love,"  said  her  mother;  "and  be  will  play  thai", 
tune,  and  sing  that  pretty  ballad  —  where  is  it,  for  I  hav<» 
not  finished  it?" 


SIMPLE     SUSAN.  173 

11  Rose  ran  away  with  it,  mother ;  and  I  '11  atep  after  her, 
Riid  bring  it  back  to  you  this  minute/'  said  Susan. 

Susan  found  her  friend  Rose  at  the  hawthorn,  in  the  midst 
of  a  crowded  circle  of  her  companions,  to  whom  she  was 
reading  "  Susan's  Lamentation  for  her  Lamb." 

"The  words  are  something  —  but  the  tune  —  the  tune  — 
I  must  have  the  tune,"  cried  Philip.  "I'll  ask  my  mother 
to  ask  Sir  Arthur  to  try  and  rout  out  which  way  that  good 
old  man  went  after  the  ball ;  and,  if  he 's  above  ground, 
we  '11  have  him  back  by  Susan's  birthday,  and  he  shall  sit 
here,  just  exactly  here,  by  this  our  bush,  and  he  shall  play 

—  I  mean  if  he  pleases  —  that  there  tune  for  us ;  and  I  shall 
learn  it  —  I  mean  if  I  can  —  in  a  minute." 

The  good  news,  that  Farmer  Price  was  to  be  employed  to 
collect  the  rents,  and  that  Attorney  Case  was  to  leave  the 
parish  in  a  month,  soon  spread  over  the  village.  Many 
came  out  of  their  houses  to  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
the  joyful  tidings  confirmed  by  Susan  herself;  the  crowd  on 
the  play-green  increased  every  minute. 

"  Yes,"  cried  the  triumphant  Philip,  "  I  tell  you  it 's  all 
true,  every  word  of  it.    Susan's  too  modest  to  say  it  herself 

—  but  I  tell  ye  all,  Sir  Arthur  gave  us  this  play-green  for 
ever,  on  account  of  her  being  so  good." 

You  see  at  last,  Attorney  Case,  with  all  his  cunning  ha# 
not  proved  a  match  for  "  Simple  Sa 


THE   BRACELETS. 


In  a  beautiful  and  retired  part  of  England  lived  Mrs. 
Villars,  a  lady  whose  accurate  understanding,  benevolent 
heart,  and  steady  temper,  peculiarly  fitted  her  for  the  most 
difficult,  as  well  as  most  important,  of  all  occupations  —  the 
education  of  youth.  This  task  she  had  undertaken ;  and 
twenty  young  persons  were  put  under  her  care,  with  the 
perfect  confidence  of  their  parents.  No  young  people  could 
be  happier ;  they  were  good  and  gay,  emulous,  but  not 
envious  of  each  other ;  for  Mrs.  Villars  was  impartially 
just ;  her  praise  they  felt  to  be  the  reward  of  merit,  and  her 
blame  they  knew  to  be  the  necessary  consequence  of  ill-con- 
duct; to  the  one,  therefore,  they  patiently  submitted,  and 
in  the  other  consciously  rejoiced.  They  rose  with  fresh 
cheerfulness  in  the  morning,  eager  to  pursue  their  various 
occupations ;  they  returned  in  the  evening  with  renewed 
ardour  to  their  amusements,  and  retired  to  rest  satisfied  with 
themselves,  and  pleased  with  each  other. 

Nothing  so  much  contributed  to  preserve  a  spirit  of  emu- 
lation in  this  little  society  as  a  small  honorary  distinction, 
given  annually,  as  a  prize  of  successful  application.  The 
prize  this  year  was  peculiarly  dear  to  each  individual,  as  it 
was  the  picture  of  a  friend  whom  they  all  dearly  loved  — 
it  was  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Villars  in  a  small  bracelet.  It- 
wanted  neither  gold,  .pearls,  nor  precious  stones,  to  give  it 
value. 

The  two  foremost  candidates  for  this  prize  were  Cecilia 
nnd  Leonori.     Cecilia  was  the  most  intimate  friend  of  Leo- 

(174) 


THE     BRACELETS.  175 

nora.  but  Iftonora  was  only  the  favourite  companion  of 
Cecilia. 

Cecilia  wa?  of  an  active,  ambitious,  enterprising  disposi- 
tion ;  more  eager  in  the  pursuit,  than  happy  in  the  enjoy- 
ment, of  her  wishes.  Leonora  was  of  a  contented,  unas- 
piring, temperate  character;  not  easily  roused  to  action,  but 
indefatigable  when  once  excited.  Leonora  was  proud,  Ce- 
cilia was  vain ;  her  vanity  made  her  more  dependent  upon 
the  approbation  of  others,  and  therefore  more  anxious  to 
please  than  Leonora ;  but  that  very  vanity  made  her  at  the 
same  time  more  apt  to  offend ;  in  short,  Leonora  was  the 
most  anxious  to  avoid  what  was  wrong,  Cecilia  the  most 
ambitious  to  do  what  was  right.  Few  of  their  companions 
loved,  but  many  were  led  by  Cecilia,  for  she  was  often  suc- 
cessful ;  many  loved  Leonora,  but  none  were  governed  by 
her,  for  she  was  too  indolent  to  govern. 

On  the  first  day  of  May,  about  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
a  great  bell  rang  to  summon  this  little  society  into  a  hall, 
where  the  prize  was  to  be  decided.  A  number  of  small 
tables  were  placed  in  a  circle  in  the  middle  cf  the  hall ; 
seats  for  the  young  competitors  were  raised  one  above  ano- 
tner,  in  a  semicircle,  some  yards  distant  from  the  table  ;  and 
the  judges'  chairs,  under  canopies  of  lilacs  and  laburnums, 
forming  another  semicircle,  closed  the  amphitheatre.  Every 
one  put  their  writings,  their  drawings,  their  works  of  vari- 
ous kinds  upon  the  tables  appropriated  for  each.  How 
unsteady  were  the  last  steps  to  these  tables '  How  each 
little  hand  trembled  as  it  laid  down  its  claims !  Till  this 
moment  every  one  thought  herself  secure  of  success,  but 
now  each  felt  an  equal  certainty  of  being  excelled  ;  and  the 
heart  which  a  few  minutes  before  exulted  with  hope  now 
palpitated  with  fear. 

The  works  were  examined,  the  preference  adjudged ;  and 
the  prize  was  declared  to  be  the  happy  Cecilia's.  Mrs.  Vil- 
lars  came  forward  smiling  with  the  bracelet  in  her  hand ; 
C^'ilia  was  behind  her  companions,  on  the  highest  row ;  all 


17b  THE     BRACELETS. 

the  others  gave  way,  and  she  was  on  the  floor  in  an  instant 
Mrs.  Vi^iiis  clasped  the  bracelet  on  her  arm  ;  the  clasp  was 
heard  through  the  whole  hall,  and  a  universal  smile  of  con- 
gratulation followed.  Mrs.  Villars  kissed  Cecilia's  little 
hand;  and  "Now,"  said  she,  "go  and  rejoice  with  your 
companions ;  the  remainder  of  the  day  is  yours." 

Oh!  you  whose  hearts  are  elated  with  success,  whose 
bosoms  beat  high  with  joy,  in  the  moment  of  triumph,  com- 
mand yourselves :  let  that  triumph  be  moderate,  that  it  may 
be  lasting.  Consider,  that  though  you  are  good,  you  may 
be  better ;  and  though  wise,  you  may  be  weak. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Villars  had  g;iven  her  the  bracelet,  all 
Cecilia's  nttle  companions  crowded  around  her,  and  they 
all  left  the  hall  in  an  instant ;  she  was  full  of  spirits  and 
vanity  —  she  ran  on :  running  down  the  flight  of  steps  which 
led  to  the  garden,  in  her  violent  haste,  Cecilia  threw  down 
the  little  Louisa.  Louisa  had  a  china  mandarin  in  her 
hand,  which  her  mother  had  sent  her  that  very  morning ;  it 
was  all  broken  to  pieces  by  her  fall. 

"  Oh,  my  mandarin !"  cried  Louisa,  bursting  into  tears. 
The  crowd  behind  Cecilia  suddenly  stopped :  Louisa  sat  on 
the  lowest  step,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  the  broken  pieces  ;  then 
turning  round,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  upon  the  step 
above  her.  In  turning,  Louisa  threw  down  the  remains  of 
*he  mandarin ;  the  head,  which  she  had  placed  in  the  socket, 
fell  from  the  shoulders,  and  rolled  bounding  along  the  gra- 
vel walk.  Cecilia  pointed  to  the  head,  and  to  the  socket, 
and  burst  out  a  laughing :  the  crowd  behind  laughed  too. 
At  any  other  time  they  would  have  been  more  inclined  to 
cry  with  Louisa ;  but  Cecilia  had  just  been  successful,  and 
sympathy  with  the  victorious  often  makes  us  forget  justice. 
Leonora,  however,  preserved  her  usual  consistency.  "Poor" 
Louisa!"  said  she,  looking  first  at  her,  and  then  reproach- 
fully at  Cecilia.  Cecilia  turned  sharply  round,  colouring, 
half  with  shame  anc(  half  with  vexation ;  "  I  could  not  help 
it,  Leonora,"  said  she. 


THE     BRACELETS.  177 

"  But  you  could  have  helped  laughing,  Cecilia." 

"  I  did  n't  laugh  at  Louisa ;  and  I  surely  may  laugh,  for 
it  does  nobody  any  harm." 

"  I  am  sure,  however,"  replied  Leonora,  "  I  should  not 
have  laughed  if  I  had — " 

"  No,  to  be  sure  you  would  n't,  because  Louisa  is  your 
favourite ;  I  can  buy  her  another  mandarin  the  next  time 
that  the  old  pedler  comes  to  the  door,  if  that 's  all.  I  can 
do  no  more  —  can  I V  said  she,  turning  round  to  her  com- 
panions. 

"No,  to  be  sure,"  said  they,  "that's  all  fair." 

Cecilia  looked  triumphantly  at  Leonora :  Leonora  let  go 
her  hand ;  she  ran  on,  and  the  crowd  followed.  When  she 
got  to  the  end  of  the  garden,  she  turned  round  to  see  if  Leo- 
nora had  followed  her  too ;  but  was  vexed  to  see  her  still 
sitting  on  the  steps  with  Louisa.  "I'm  sure  I  can  do  no 
more  than  buy  her  another!  Can  I?"  said  she,  again 
appealing  to  her  companions. 

"  No,  to  be  sure,"  said  they,  eager  to  begin  their  plays. 

How  many  did  they  begin  and  leave  off,  before  Cecilia 
jould  be  satisfied  with  any :  her  thoughts  were  discomposed, 
"uid  her  mind  was  running  upon  something  else  ;  no  wonder, 
^hen,  that  she  did  not  play  with  her  usual  address.  She 
grew  still  more  impatient ;  she  threw  down  the  ninepins : 
"Come,  let  us  play  an  something  else  —at  threading  the 
needle,"  said  she,  holding  out  her  hand.  They  all  yielded 
to  the  hand  which  wore  the  bracelet.  But  Cecilia,  dissatis- 
fied with  herself,  was  discontented  with  everybody  else  ;  her 
tone  grew  more  and  more  peremptory.  One  was  too  rude, 
another  toe  stiff;  one  too  slow,  another  too  quick;  in  short, 
everything  went  wrong,  and  everybody  was  tired  of  her 
humours. 

The  triumph  of  success  is  absolute,  but  short.  Cecilia's 
companions  at  length  recollected  that,  though  she  had  em- 
broidered a  tulip  and  painted  a  peach  better  than  they,  yet 
that  they  could  play  as  well,  and  keep  their  tempers  better ; 
12 


178  THE     BRACELETS. 

fihe  was  thrown  out.  Walking  towards  the  house  m  a  peev- 
ish mood,  she  met  Leonora :  she  passed  on. 

"  Cecilia  I"  cried  Leonora. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?" 

"Are  we  friends?" 

"  You  know  best." 

"  We  are ;  if  you  will  let  me  tell  Louisa  that  you  are 
sorry — " 

Cecilia,  interrupting  her  — "  Oh,  pray,  let  me  hear  no 
more  about  Louisa  I" 

"  What !  not  confess  that  you  were  in  the  wrong !  Oh ! 
Cecilia !  I  had  a  better  opinion  of  you." 

"  Your  opinion  is  of  no  consequence  to  me  now;  for  you 
do  n't  love  me." 

"  No,  not  when  you  are  unjust,  Cecilia." 

"  Unjust !  I  am  not  unjust :  and  if  I  were,  you  are  not  my 
governess." 

"  No,  but  am  not  I  your  friend  ?" 

"  I  do  n't  desire  to  have  such  a  friend,  who  would  quarrel 
with  me  for  happening  to  throw  down  little  Louisa.  How 
could  I  tell  that  she  had  a  mandarin  in  her  hand?  And 
when  it  was  broken,  could  I  do  more  than  promise  her  ano- 
ther? was  that  unjust?" 

"  But  you  know,  Cecilia — " 

"I  knoio,"  —  ironically  —  "I  know,  Leonora,  that  you 
love  Louisa  better  than  you  do  me  ;  that's  the  injustice  !" 

"  If  I  did,"  replied  Leonora,  gravely,  "  it  would  be  no 
injustice,  if  she  deserved  it  better." 

"  How  can  you  compare  Louisa  to  me  ?"  exclaimed  Cecilia, 
indignantly. 

Leonora  made  no  answer,  for  she  was  really  hurt  at  her 
friend's  conduct:  she  walked  on  to  join  the  rest  of  her  com- 
panions. They  were  dancing  m  a  round  upon  the  grass. 
Leonora  declined  dancing,  but  they  prevailed  upon  her  to 
sing  for  them :  her  voice  was  not  so  sprightly,  but  it  was 
sweeter  than  usual.  Who  sung  so  sweetly  as  Leonora  ?  or 
who  danced  so  nimbly  as  Louisa  ? 


LOUISA    IMMEDIATELY    RAN    AWAY    TO    HER    GARDEN. 


THE     BRACELETS.  179 

Away  she  was  flying,  all  spirits  and  gayety,  when  Leo- 
nora's eyes,  full  of  tears,  caught  hers  :  Louisa  silently  lei 
go  her  companion's  hands,  and  quitting  the  dance,  ran  up 
to  Leonora  to  inquire  what  was  the  matter  with  her. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  she,  "  that  need  interrupt  you.  Go» 
my  dear  —  go,  and  dance  again." 

Louisa  immediately  ran  away  to  her  garden,  and  pulling 
off  her  little  straw  hat,  she  lined  it  with  fresh  strawberry 
leaves,  and  was  upon  her  knees  before  the  strawberry-bed 
when  Cecilia  came  by.  Cecilia  was  not  disposed  to  be 
pleased  with  Louisa  at  that  instant,  for  two  reasons,  —  be- 
cause she  was  jealous  of  her,  and  because  she  had  injured 
her.  The  injury,  however,  Louisa  had  already,  forgotten  ; 
perhaps,  to  tell  things  just  as  they  were,  she  was  not  quite 
so  much  inclined  to  kiss  Cecilia  as  she  would  have  been 
before  the  fall  of  her  mandarin ;  but  this  was  the  utmost 
extent  of  her  malice,  if  it  can  be  called  malice. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there,  little  one  ?"  said  Cecilia,  in 
a  sharp  tone :  "  are  you  eating  your  early  strawberries  here 
all  alone?" 

"  No,"  said  Louisa,  mysteriously,  "  I  am  not  eating  them." 

"What  are  you  doing  with  them?  Can't  you  answer, 
then  ?     I  'm  not  playing  with  you,  child." 

"  Oh  !  as  to  that,  Cecilia,  you  know  I  need  not  answer  you 
unless  I  choose  it ;  not  but  what  I  would  if  you  would  only 
ask  me  civilly,  and  if  you  would  not  call  me  child." 

"Why  should  I  not  call  you  child?" 

"  Because — because — I  do  n't  know :  but  I  wish  you  would 
stand  out  of  my  light,  Cecilia,  for  you  are  trampling  upon 
^11  my  strawberries." 

"  I  have  not  touched  one,  you  covetous  little  creature  I" 

"  Indeed- — indeed,  Cecilia,  I  am  not  covetous :  I  have  not 
eaten  one  of  them  —  they  are  all  for  your  friend  Leonora. 
See  how  unjust  you  are  !" 

"Unjust!  that's  a  cant  word  you  learned  of  my  friend 
Leonora,  as  you  call  her ;  but  she  is  not  my  friend  now." 


180  THE     BRACELETS. 

"  Not  your  friend  now !"  exclaimed  Louisa ;  "  then  I  am 
sure  you  must  have  done  something  very  naughty." 

"  How  I"  said  Cecilia,  catching  hold  of  her. 

"  Let  me  go  —  let  me  go  V  cried  Louisa,  struggling ;  "  I 
won't  give  you  one  of  my  strawberries,  for  I  do  n't  like  you 
at  all !" 

"  You  do  n't,  do  n't  you  ?"  said  Cecilia,  provoked ;  and 
catching  the  hat  from  Louisa,  she  flung  the  strawberries 
over  the  hedge. 

"  Will  nobody  help  me  V  exclaimed  Louisa,  snatching 
her  hat  again,  and  running  away  with  all  her  force. 

"  What  have  I  done  !"  said  Cecilia,  recollecting  herself. 
"  Louisa !  Louisa !"  She  called  very  loud,  but  Louisa  would 
not  turn  back ;  she  was  running  to  her  companions. 

They  were  still  dancing  hand-in-hand  upon  the  grass, 
while  Leonora,  sitting  in  the  middle,  sang  to  them. 

"  Stop  !  stop !  and  hear  me !"  cried  Louisa,  breaking 
through  them ;  and  rushing  up  to  Leonora,  she  threw  her 
hat  at  her  feet,  and,  panting  for  breath  —  "  It  was  full  — 
almost  full  of  my  own  strawberries,"  said  she,  "  the  first  I 
ever  got  out  of  my  own  garden.  They  should  all  have  been 
for  you,  Leonora,  but  now  I  have  not  one  left.  They  are 
all  gone !"  said  she,  and  she  hid  her  face  in  Leonora's  lap. 

"  Gone !  gone  where  ?"  said  every  one,  at  once  running 
up  to  her. 

"  Cecilia !  Cecilia !"  said  she,  sobbing. 

"Cecilia,"  repeated  Leonora,  "what  of  Cecilia?" 

"Yes,  it  was  —  it  was." 

"  Come  along  with  me,"  said  Leonora,  unwilling  to  have 
ber  friend  exposed ;  "  come,  and  I  will  get  you  some  more 
strawberries." 

"  Oh,  I  do  n't  mind  the  strawberries  indeed  ;  but  I  wanted 
to  have  had  the  pleasure  of  giving  them  to  you."  Leonora 
took  her  up  in  her  arms  to  carry  her  away,  but  it  was  too 
late. 

"  What,  Cecilia !     Cecilia  who  won  the  prize  this  mora- 


THE     BRACELETS.  181 

ing!  —  it  could  not  surely  be  Cecilia!"   whispered  every 
busy  tongue. 

At  this  instant  the  bell  summoned  them  in.  "  There  she 
is !  There  she  is  !"  cried  they,  pointing  to  an  arbour  where 
Cecilia  was  standing,  ashamed  and  alone  ;  and  as  they  passed 
her,  some  lifted  up  their  hands  and  eyes  with  astonishment, 
others  whispered  and  huddled  mysteriously  together,  as  if 
to  avoid  her:  Leonora  walked  on,  her  head  a  little  higher 
than  usual. 

'*  Leonora !"  said  Cecilia,  timorously,  as  she  passed. 

11  Oh,  Cecilia  !  who  would  have  thought  that  you  had  a 
bad  heart  I" 

Cecilia  turned  her  head  aside,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  no !  indeed,  she  has  not  a  bad  heart  \"  cried  Louisa, 
running  up  to  her,  and  throwing  her  arms  round  her  neck ; 
"she's  very  sorry  —  are  you  not,  Cecilia?  But  don't  cry 
any  more,  for  I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart —  and  I  love 
you  now,  though  I  said  I  did  not  when  I  was  in  a  passion." 

"  Oh,  you  sweet-tempered  girl !  how  I  love  you  t"  said 
Cecilia,  kissing  her. 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  do,  come  along  with  me,  and  dry  your 
eyes,  for  they  are  so  red !" 

"  Go,  my  dear,  and  I  '11  come  presently." 

"  Then  I  will  keep  a  place  for  you  next  to  me  ;  but  you 
must  make  haste,  or  you  will  have  to  come  in  when  we  have 
all  sat  down  to  supper,  and  then  you  will  be  so  stared  at ! 
so  do  n't  stay,  now." 

Cecilia  followed  Louisa  with  her  eyes  till  she  was  out  of 
sight.  "  And  is  Louisa,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  the  only 
one  who  would  stop  to  pity  me?  Mrs.  Yillars  told  me  that 
this  day  should  be  mine ;  she  little  thought  how  it  would 
end  1"  Saying  these  words,  Cecilia  threw  herself  down  upon 
the  ground ;  her  arm  leaned  upon  a  heap  of  turf  which  she 
had  raised  in  the  morning,  and  which,  in  the  pride  and 
gayety  of  her  heart,  she  had  called  her  throne. 

At  this  instant  Mrs.  Villars  came  out  to  enjoy  the  serenity 


182  THE     BRACELETS. 

of  the  evening,  and  passing  by  the  arbour  where  Cecilia 
lay,  she  started ;  Cecilia  rose  hastily. 

"  Who  is  there  ?"  said  Mrs.  Villars. 

"It  is  I,  madam." 

"  And  who  is  If" 

"  Cecilia." 

"  Why,  what  keeps  you  here,  my  dear  ?  wh  ere  are  your 
companions  ?  This  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  happiest  days 
of  your  life." 

"  0 !  no,  madam !"  said  Cecilia,  hardly  able  to  repress 
her  tears. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what  is  the  matter  V 

Cecilia  hesitated. 

"  Speak,  my  dear ;  you  know  that  when  I  ask  you  to  tell 
me  anything  as  your  friend,  I  never  punish  you  as  your 
governess  ;  therefore  you  need  not  be  afraid  to  tell  me  what 
is  the  matter." 

"  No,  madam,  I  am  not  afraid,  but  ashamed.  You  asked 
me  why  I  was  not  with  my  companions.  Why,  madam, 
because  they  have  all  left  me,  and — " 

"  And  what,  my  dear  ?" 

"  And  I  see. that  they  all  dislike  me,  and  yet  I  do  n't  know 
why  they  should,  for  I  take  as  much  pains  to  please  as  any 
of  them  ;  all  my  masters  seem  satisfied  with  me  ;  and  you 
yourself,  ma'am,  were  pleased  this  very  morning  to  give  me 
this  bracelet ;  and  I  am  sure  you  would  not  have  given  it  tc 
any  one  who  did  not  deserve  it." 

"  Certainly  not :  you  did  deserve  it  for  your  application 
—  for  your  successful  application.  The  prize  was  for  the 
most  assiduous,  not  for  the  most  amiable." 

"  Then  if  it  had  been  for  the  most  amiable,  it  would  not 
have  been  for  me." 

Mrs.  Villars,  smiling —  "Why,  what  do  you  think  your- 
self, Cecilia  ?  You  are  better  able  to  judge  than  I  am :  I 
can  determine  whether  or  not  you  apply  to  what  I  give  you 
to  learn ;  whether  you  attend  to  what  I  desire  you  to  do, 


THE     BRACELETS.  183 

and  avoid  what  I  desire  you  not  to  do ;  I  know  that  I  like 
you  as  a  pupil,  but  I  cannot  know  that  I  should  like  you  as 
a  companion,  unless  I  were  your  companion ;  therefore  1 
must  judge  of  what  I  should  do,  by  seeing  what  others  do  in 
the  same  circumstances." 

"  Oh,  pray  do  n't,  ma'am !  for  then  you  would  not  love 
me  neither.  And  yet  I  think  you  would  love  me ;  for  I  hope 
that  I  am  as  ready  to  oblige,  and  as  good-natured  as — " 

"  Yes,  Cecilia,  I  do  n't  doubt  but  that  you  would  be  very 
good-natured  to  me,  but  I  am  afraid  that  I  should  not  liko 
you  unless  you  were  good-tempered  too." 

"But,  ma'am,  by  good-natured  I  mean  good-temperod  — 
it's  all  the  same  thing." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  understand  by  them  two  very  different 
things :  you  are  good-natured,  Cecilia,  for  you  are  desirous 
to  oblige  and  serve  your  companions ;  to  gain  them  praise, 
and  save  them  from  blame ;  to  give  them  pleasure,  and 
relieve  them  from  pain :  but  Leonora  is  good-tempered,  for 
she  can  bear  with  their  foibles,  and  acknowledge  her  own 
—  without  disputing  about  the  right,  she  sometimes  yields 
to  those  who  are  in  the  wrong ;  in  short,  her  temper  is  per- 
fectly good,  for  it  can  bear  and  forbear." 

"  I  wish  that  mine  could !"  said  Cecilia,  sighing. 

"  It  may,"  replied  Mrs.  Villars ;  "  but  it  is  not  wishes 
alone  that  can  improve  us  in  anything.  Turn  the  same 
exertion  and  perseverance  which  have  won  you  the  prize 
to-day  to  this  object,  and  you  will  meet  with  the  same  suc- 
cess ;  perhaps  not  on  the  first,  the  second,  or  the  third 
attempt,  but  depend  upon  it  that  you  will  at  last :  every  new 
effort  will  weaken  your  bad  habits  and  strengthen  your  good 
ones.  But  you  must  not  expect  to  succeed  all  at  once,  I 
repeat  it  to  you,  for  habit  must  be  counteracted  by  habit. 
It  would  be  as  extravagant  in  us  to  expect  that  all  our  faults 
could  be  destroyed  by  one  punishment,  were  it  ever  so 
severe,  as  it  was  in  the  Roman  emperor  we  were  reading  of 
a  few  days  ago,  to  wish  that  all  the  heads  of  his  enemies 


184  THE     BRACELETS. 

were  upon  one  neck,  that  he  might  cut  them  off  nt  one 
blow." 

Here  Mrs.  Villars  took  Cecilia  by  the  hand,  and  they 
began  to  walk  home.  Such  was  the  nature  of  Cecilia's 
mind,  that  when  any  object  was  forcibly  impressed  on  her 
imagination,  it  caused  a  temporary  suspension  of  her  rea- 
soning faculties.  Hope  was  too  strong  a  stimulus  for  her 
spirits ;  and  when  fear  did  take  possession  of  her  mind,  it 
was  attended  with  total  debility :  her  vanity  was  now  as 
much  mortified  as  in  the  morning  it  had  been  elated.  She 
walked  on  with  Mrs.  Villars  in  silence,  until  they  came 
under  the  shade  of  the  elm-tree  walk,  and  then,  fixing  her 
eyes  upon  Mrs.  Villars,  she  stopped  short  —  "  Do  you  think, 
madam,"  said  she,  with  hesitation,  "  do  you  think,  madam, 
that  I  have  a  bad  heart  1" 

"  A  bad  heart,  my  dear !  why,  what  put  that  into  your 
head  ?" 

'*  Leonora  said  that  I  had,  ma'am,  and  I  felt  ashamed 
when  she  said  so." 

"  But,  my  dear,  how  can  Leonora  tell  whether  your  heart 
be  good  or  bad  ?  However,  in  the  first  place,  tell  me  what 
you  mean  by  a  bad  heart." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  what  is  meant  by  it,  ma'am ;  but 
it  is  something  which  everybody  hates." 

"  And  why  do  they  hate  it?" 

"  Because  they  think  that  it  will  hurt  them,  ma'am,  I 
believe  ;  and  that  those  who  have  bad  hearts  take  delight  in 
doing  mischief;  and  that  they  never  do  anybody  good  but 
£;r  their  own  ends." 

"  Then  the  best  definition  which  you  can  give  of  a  bad 
heart  is,  that  it  is  some  constant  propensity  to  hurt  others, 
and  to  do  wrong  for  the  sake  of  doing  wrong  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am;  but  that  is  not  all  neither:  there  is  still 
something  else  meant ;  something  which  I  cannot  express 
—  which,  indeed,  I  never  distinctly  understood ;  but  of 
which,  therefore,  I  was  the  more  afraid." 


THE     BRACELETS.  185 

"  Well,  then,  to  begin  with  what  you  do  not  understand : 
tell  me,  Cecilia,  do  you  really  think  it  possible  to  be  wicked 
merely  for  the  love  of  wickedness?  No  human  being 
becomes  wicked  all  at  once  ;  a  man  begins  by  doing  wrong 
because  it  is,  or  because  he  thinks  it,  for  his  interest ;  if  he 
continue  to  do  so,  he  must  conquer  his  sense  of  shame,  and 
lose  his  love  of  virtue.  But  how  can  you,  Cecilia,  who  feel 
such  a  strong  sense  of  shame,  and  such  an  eager  desire  to 
improve,  imagine  that  you  have  a  bad  heart?" 

"  Indeed,  madam,  I  never  <Jid,  until  everybody  told  me 
so,  and  then  I  began  to  be  frightened  about  it;  this  very 
evening,  ma'am,  when  I  was  in  a  passion,  I  threw  little 
Louisa's  strawberries  away ;  which,  I  am  sure,  I  was  very 
sorry  for  afterward ;  and  Leonora  and  everybody  cried  out 
that  I  had  a  bad  heart  —  but  I  am  sure  I  was  only  in  a  pas- 
sion." 

"  Very  likely.  And  when  you  are  in  a  passion,  as  you 
call  it,  Cecilia,  you  see  that  you  are  tempted  to  do  harm  to 
others :  if  they  do  not  feel  angry  themselves,  they  do  not 
sympathize  with  you  ;  they  do  not  perceive  the  motive  which 
actuates  you,  and  then  they  say  that  you  have  a  bad  heart. 
I  dare  say,  however,  when  your  passion  is  over,  and  when 
you  recollect  yourself,  you  are  very  sorry  for  what  you  have 
done  and  said,  are  not  you  1" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  madam  —  very  sorry." 

"  Then  make  that  sorrow  of  use  to  you,  Cecilia ;  and  fix 
it.  steadily  in  your  thoughts,  as  you  hope  to  be  good  and 
happy,  that  if  you  suffer  yourself  to  yield  to  your  passion 
upon  every  trifling  occasion,  anger  and  its  consequences  will 
become  familiar  to  your  mind ;  and  in  the  same  proportion 
your  sense  of  shame  will  be  weakened,  till,  what  you  begin 
with  doing  from  sudden  impulse,  you  will  end  with  doing 
from  habit  and  choice  ;  and  then  you  would  indeed,  accord- 
ing to  your  definition,  have  a  bad  heart." 

"  Oh,  madam  !  I  hope  —  I  am  sure  I  never  shall." 

"  No,  indeed,  Cecilia ;  I  do,  indeed,  believe  that  you  never 


186  TIE     BRACELETS. 

will ;  on  the  contrary,  I  think  that  you  have  a  very  good 
disposition,  and  what  is  of  infinitely  more  consequence  to 
you,  an  active  desire  of  improvement ;  show  me  that  you 
have  as  much  perseverance  as  you  have  candour,  and  I  shall 
not  despair  of  your  becoming  everything  that  I  could  wish." 

Here  Cecilia's  countenance  brightened,  and  she  ran  up 
the  steps  in  almost  as  high  spirits  as  she  ran  down  them  in 
the  morning. 

"  Good-night  to  you,  Cecilia,"  said  Mrs.  Villars,  as  she  was 
crossing  the  hall. 

"  Good-night  to  you,  madam,"  said  Cecilia ;  and  she  ran 
up-stairs  to  bed. 

She  could  not  go  to  sleep,  but  she  lay  awake,  reflecting 
upon  the  events  of  the  preceding  day,  and  forming  reso- 
lutions for  the  future ;  at  the  same  time  considering  that 
she  had  resolved,  and  resolved  without  effect.  She  wished 
to  give  her  mind  some  more  powerful  motive :  ambition  she 
knew  to  be  its  most  powerful  incentive. 

"  Have  I  not,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  already  won  the  prize 
of  application,  and  cannot  the  same  application  procure  me 
a  much  higher  prize  ?  Mrs.  Villars  said,  that  if  the  prize 
had  been  promised  to  the  most  amiable  it  would  not  have 
been  given  to  me :  perhaps  it  would  not  yesterday,  perhaps 
it  might  not  to-morrow ;  but  that  is  no  reason  that  I  should 
despair  of  ever  deserving  it." 

In  consequence  of  this  reasoning,  Cecilia  formed  a  design 
of  proposing  to  her  companions  that  they  should  give  a 
prize  the  first  of  the  ensuing  month  (the  first  of  June),  to 
the  most  amiable.  Mrs.  Villars  applauded  the  scheme,  and 
her  companions  adopted  it  with  the  greatest  alacrity. 

"  Let  the  prize,"  said  they,  "  be  a  bracelet  of  our  own 
hair ;"  and  instantly  their  shining  scissors  were  produced, 
and  each  contributed  a  lock  of  her  hair.  They  formed  the 
most  beautiful  gradation  of  colours,  from  the  palest  auburn 
to  the  brightest  black.  Who  was  to  have  the  honour  of 
platting  them,  was  n^w  the  question. 


THE     BRACELETS.  187 

Caroline  begged  that  she  might,  as  she  could  plat  very 
neatly,  she  said. 

Cecilia,  however,  was  equally  sure  that  she  could  do  it 
much  better ;  and  a  dispute  would  inevitably  have  ensued, 
if  Cecilia,  recollecting  herself  just  as  her  colour  rose  to 
scarlet,  had  not  yielded  —  yielded,  with  no  very  good  grace, 
indeed,  but  as  well  as  could  be  expected  for  the  first  time. 
For  it  is  habit  which  confers  ease  ;  and  without  ease,  even 
in  moral  actions,  there  can  be  no  grace. 

The  bracelet  was  platted  in  the  neatest  manner  by  Caro- 
line, finished  round  the  edge  with  silver  twist,  and  on  it  was 
worked,  in  the  smallest  silver  letters,  this  motto  —  "  To  the 
most  amiable."  The  moment  it  was  completed,  everybody 
begged  to  try  it  on :  it  fastened  with  little  silver  clasps,  and 
as  it  was  made  large  enough  for  the  eldest  girls,  it  was  too 
large  for  the  youngest ;  of  this  they  bitterly  complained, 
and  unanimously  entreated  that  it  might  be  cut  to  fit  them. 

"  How  foolish  I"  exclaimed  Cecilia ;  "  do  n't  you  perceive 
that,  if  you  win  it,  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  put  the 
clasps  a  little  farther  from  the  edge ;  but,  if  we  get  it,  we 
can't  make  it  larger." 

"  Very  true,"  said  they ;  "  but  you  need  not  to  have  called 
us  foolish,  Cecilia." 

It  was  by  such  hasty  and  unguarded  expressions  as  these 
that  Cecilia  offended ;  a  slight  difference  in  the  manner 
makes  a  very  material  one  in  the  effect ;  Cecilia  lost  more 
love  by  general  petulance,  than  she  could  gain  by  the  great- 
est particular  exertions. 

How  far  she  succeeded  in  curing  herself  of  this  defect 
how  far  she  became  deserving  of  the  bracelet,  and  to  whom 
the  bracelet  was  given,  shall  be  told  in  the  history  of  the 
first  of  June. 


The  first  of  June  was  now  arrived,  and  all  the  young 
competitors  were  in  a  state  of  the  most  anxious  susp3nse 


188  THE     BRACELETS. 

Leonora  and  Cecilia  continued  to  be  the  foremost  candidates ; 
their  quarrel  had  never  been  finally  adjusted,  and  their  dif- 
ferent pretensions  now  retarded  all  thoughts  of  a  reconcilia- 
tion. Cecilia,  though  she  was  capable  of  acknowledging 
any  of  her  faults  in  public  before  all  her  companions,  could 
not  humble  herself  in  private  to  Leonora.  Leonora  was  her 
equal,  they  were  her  inferiors :  and  submission  is  much 
easier  to  a  vain  mind,  where  it  appears  to  be  voluntary, 
than  when  it  is  the  necessary  tribute  to  justice  or  candour. 
So  strongly  did  Cecilia  feel  this  truth,  that  she  even  delayed 
making  any  apology,  or  coming  to  any  explanation  with 
Leonora,  until  success  should  once  more  give  her  the  palm. 

"  If  I  win  the  bracelet  to-day,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  I 
will  solicit  the  return  of  Leonora's  friendship ;  it  will  be 
more  valuable  to  me  than  even  the  bracelet ;  and  at  such  a 
time,  and  asked  in  such  a  manner,  she  surely  cannot  refuse 
it  to  me."  Animated  with  this  hope  of  a  double  triumph, 
Cecilia  canvassed  with  the  most  zealous  activity ;  by  constant 
attention  and  exertion  she  had  considerably  abated  the  vio- 
lence of  her  temper,  and  changed  the  course  of  her  habits. 
Her  powers  of  pleasing  were  now  excited,  instead  of  her 
abilities  to  excel ;  and,  if  her  talents  appeared  less  brilliant, 
her  character  was  acknowledged  to  be  more  amiable ;  so 
great  an  influence  upon  our  manners  and  conduct  have  the 
objects  of  our  ambition.  Cecilia  was  now,  if  possible,  more 
than  ever  desirous  of  doing  what  was  right,  but  she  had  not 
yet  acquired  sufficient  fear  of  doing  wrong.  This  was  the 
fundamental  error  of  her  mind :  it  arose  in  a  great  measure 
from  her  early  education. 

Her  mother  died  when  she  was  very  young;  and  though 
her  father  had  supplied  her  place  in  the  best  and  kindest 
manner,  he  had  insensibly  infused  into  his  daughter's  mind 
a  portion  of  that  enterprising,  independent  spirit  which  he 
justly  deemed  essential  to  the  character  of  her  brother ;  this 
brother  was  some  years  older  than  Cecilia,  but  he  had  always 
been   the   favourite   companion   of  her   youth ;    what   her 


THE     BRACELETS.  189 

father's  precepts  inculcated,  his  example  enforced,  and  Ce- 
cilia's virtues  consequently  became  such  as  were  more 
estimable  in  a  man  than  desirable  in  a  female. 

All  small  objects,  and  small  errors,  she  had  been  taught 
to  disregard  as  trifles ;  and  her  impatient  disposition  was 
perpetually  leading  her  into  more  material  faults ;  yet  her 
candour  in  confessing  these,  she  had  been  suffered  to  believe, 
was  sufficient  reparation  and  atonement. 

Leonora,  on  the  contrary,  who  had  been  educated  by  her 
mother  in  a  manner  more  suited  to  her  sex,  had  a  character 
and  virtues  more  peculiar  to  a  female:  her  judgment  had 
been  early  cultivated,  and  her  good  sense  employed  in  the 
regulation  of  her  conduct ;  she  had  been  habituated  to  that 
restraint,  which,  as  a  woman,  she  was  to  expect  in  life,  and 
early  accustomed  to  yield;  complaisance  in  her  seemed 
natural  and  graceful. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  the  gentleness  of  her  temper,  she 
was  in  reality  more  independent  than  Cecilia ;  she  had  more 
reliance  upon  her  own  judgment,  and  more  satisfaction  in 
her  own  approbation :  though  far  from  insensible  to  praise, 
she  was  not  liable  to  be  misled  by  the  indiscriminate  love 
of  admiration :  the  uniform  kindness  of  her  manner,  the 
consistency  and  equality  of  her  character,  had  fixed  the 
esteem  and  passive  love  of  her  companions. 

By  passive  love,  we  mean  that  species  of  affection  which 
makes  us  unwilling  to  offend,  rather  than  anxious  to  oblige ; 
which  is  more  a  habit  than  an  emotion  of  the  mind.  For 
Cecilia  her  companions  felt  active  love,  for  she  was  active 
in  showing  her  love  to  them. 

Active  love  arises  spontaneously  in  the  mind,  after  feel- 
ing particular  instances  of  kindness,  without  reflection  on 
the  past  conduct  or  general  character ;  it  exceeds  the  merits 
of  its  object,  and  is  connected  with  a  feeling  of  generosity, 
rather  than  with  a  sense  of  justice. 

Without  determining  which  species  of  love  is  the  more 
flattering  to  others,  we  can  easily  decide  which  is  the  most 


190  THE     BRACELETS. 

agreeable  feeling  to  our  own  minds ;  we  give  our  hearts 
more  credit  for  being  generous  than  for  being  just ;  and  we 
feel  more  self-complacency  when  we  give  our  love  volunta- 
rily, than  when  we  yield  it  as  a  tribute  which  we  cannot 
withhold.  Though  Cecilia's  companions  might  not  know 
all  this  in  theory,  they  proved  it  in  practice ;  for  they  loved 
her  in  a  much  higher  proportion  to  her  merits  than  they 
loved  Leonora. 

Each  of  the  young  judges  were  to  signify  their  choice,  by 
putting  a  red  or  a  white  shell  in  a  vase  prepared  for  the 
purpose.  Cecilia's  colour  was  red,  Leonora's  white.  In  the 
morning  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  these  shells,  nothing 
talked  of  but  the  long-expected  event  of  the  evening.  Ce- 
cilia, following  Leonora's  example,  had  made  it  a  point  of 
honour  not  to  inquire  of  any  individual  her  vote,  previous 
to  her  final  determination. 

They  were  both  sitting  together  in  Louisa's  room  :  Louisa 
was  recovering  from  the  measles :  every  one  during  her  ill- 
ness had  been  desirous  of  attending  her ;  but  Leonora  and 
Cecilia  were  the  only  two  that  were  permitted  to  see  her,  as 
they  alone  had  had  the  distemper.  They  were  both  assidu- 
ous in  their  care  of  Louisa ;  but  Leonora's  want  of  exertion 
to  overcome  any  disagreeable  feelings  of  sensibility  often 
deprived  her  of  presence  of  mind,  and  prevented  her  from 
being  so  constantly  useful  as  Cecilia.  Cecilia,  on  the  con- 
trary, often  made  too  much  noise  and  bustle  with  her  ofii- 
cious  assistance,  and  was  too  anxious  to  invent  amusements, 
and  to  procure  comforts  for  Louisa,  without  perceiving  that 
illness  takes  away  the  power  of  enjoying  them. 

As  she  was  sitting  in  the  window  in  the  morning,  exert- 
ing herself  to  entertain  Louisa,  she  heard  the  voice  of  an 
old  pedler,  who  often  used  to  come  to  the  house.  Down- 
stairs she  ran  immediately  to  ask  Mrs.  Villars's  permission 
to  bring  him  into  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Yillars  consented,  and  away  Cecilia  ran  to  proclaim 
the  news  to  her  companions ;  then  first  returning  into  the 


THE     BRACELETS.  191 

hall,  she  found  the  pedler  just  unbuckling  his  box,  and 
taking  it  off  his  shoulders.  "  What  would  you  be  pleased 
to  want,  miss?"  said  he;  "I've  all  kinds  of  tweezer-cases, 
rings,  and  lockets  of  all  sorts,"  continued  he,  opening  all 
the  glittering  drawers  successively. 

"  Oh  I"  said  Cecilia,  shutting  the  drawer  of  lockets  which 
tempted  her  most,  "  these  are  not  the  things  which  I  want ; 
have  you  any  china  figures,  any  mandarins  V* 

"  Alack-a-day !  miss,  I  had  a  great  stock  of  that  same 
china-ware,  but  now  I  'm  quite  out  of  them  kind  of  things  ; 
but  I  believe,"  said  he,  rummaging  one  of  the  deepest 
drawers,  "  I  believe  I  have  one  left,  and  here  it  is." 

"  Oh,  that  is  the  very  thing !  what 's  its  price  ?" 

"  Only  three  shillings,  ma'am."  Cecilia  paid  the  money, 
and  was  just  going  to  carry  off  the  mandarin,  when  the 
pedler  took  out  of  his  great-coat  pocket  a  neat  mahogany 
case :  it  was  about  a  foot  long,  and  fastened  at  each  end  by 
two  little  clasps  ;  it  had,  besides,  a  small  lock  in  the  middle. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  said  Cecilia,  eagerly. 

"  It's  only  a  china  figure,  miss,  which  I  am  going  to  carry 
to  an  elderly  lady,  who  lives  nigh-hand,  and  who  is  mighty 
fond  of  such  things." 

"  Could  you  let  me  look  at  it  ?" 

"  And  welcome,  miss,"  said  he,  and  opened  the  case. 

"  Oh  goodness  !  how  beautiful !"  exclaimed  Cecilia. 

It  was  the  figure  of  Flora,  crowned  with  roses,  and  car- 
rying a  basket  of  flowers  in  her  hand.  Cecilia  contemplated 
it  with  delight.  "  How  I  should  like  to  give  this  to  Louisa," 
said  she  to  herself;  and  at  last,  breaking  silence,  "Did  you 
promise  it  to  the  old  lady?" 

"  Oh  no,  miss  ;  I  did  n't  promise  it,  she  never  saw  it ;  and 
if  so  be  that  you  'd  like  to  take  it,  I  'd  make  no  more  words 
about  it." 

"  And  how  much  does  it  cost  ?" 

"  Why,  miss,  as  tc  that,  I  '11  let  you  have  it  fcr  half  a 
guinea." 


192  THE     BRACELETS. 

Cecilia  immediately  produced  the  box  in  which  she  kept 
her  treasure,  and  emptying  it  upon  the  table,  she  began  to 
count  the  shillings :  alas !  there  were  but  six  shillings. 
"How  provoking!"  said  she,  "then  I  can't  have  it  — 
where  'a  the  mandarin  ?  Oh  I  have  it,"  said  she,  taking  it 
up,  and  looking  at  it  with  the  utmost  disgust.  "  Is  this  the 
same  that  I  had  before  ?" 

"Yes,  miss,  the  very  same,"  replied  the  pedler,  who, 
during  this  time,  had  been  examining  the  little  box  out  of 
which  Cecilia  had  taken  her  money :  it  was  of  silver. 

"Why,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "since  you've  taken  such  a 
fancy  to  the  piece,  if  you  've  a  mind  to  make  up  the  remain- 
der of  the  money,  I  will  take  this  here  little  box,  if  you  care 
to  part  with  it." 

Now  this  box  was  a  keepsake  from  Leonora  to  Cecilia. 
"  No,"  said  Cecilia,  hastily,  blushing  a  little,  and  stretching 
out  her  hand  to  receive  it. 

"Oh,  miss!"  said  he,  returning  it  carelessly,  "I  hope 
th°re's  no  offence;  I  meant  but  to  serve  you,  that's  all; 
such  a  rare  piece  of  china  work  has  no  cause  to  go  a  beg- 
ging," added  he,  putting  the  Flora  deliberately  into  the  case  ; 
then  turning  the  key  with  a  jerk,  he  let  it  drop  into  his 
pocket,  and  lifting  up  his  box  by  the  leather  straps,  he  was 
preparing  to  depart. 

"  Oh,  stay  one  minute !"  said  Cecilia,  in  whose  mind 
there  had  passed  a  very  warm  conflict  during  the  pedler's 
harangue.  "  Louisa  would  so  like  this  Flora,"  said  she, 
arguing  with  herself;  "besides,  it  would  be  so  generous  in 
me  to  give  it  to  her  instead  of  that  ugly  mandarin ;  that 
would  be  doing  only  common  justice,  for  I  promised  it  tc 
her,  and  she  expects  it.  Though,  when  I  come  to  look  at 
this  mandarin,  it  is  not  even  so  good  as  hers  was ;  the  gild- 
ing is  all  rubbed  off,  so  that  I  absolutely  must  buy  this  for 
her.  Oh  yes,  I  will,  and  she  will  be  so  delighted !  and  then 
everybody  will  say  it  is  the  prettiest  thing  they  ever  saw, 
anf1  the  broken  mandarin  will  be  forgotten  for  ever." 


THE     BRACELETS.  193 

;4Here  Cecilia's  hand  moved,  and  she  was  just  going  to 
decide  ;  "  Oh  !  but  stop,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  consider  Leo- 
nora gave  me  this  box,  and  it  is  a  keepsake ;  however,  now 
we  have  quarrelled,  and  I  dare  say  that  she  would  not  mind 
my  parting  with  it :  I  'm  sure  that  I  should  not  care  if  she 
was  to  give  away  my  keepsake  the  smelling-bottle,  or  the 
ring  which  I  gave  her;  so  what  does  it  signify?  besides,  is 
it  not  my  own,  and  have  I  not  a  right  to  do  what  I  please 
with  it?" 

At  this  dangerous  instant  for  Cecilia,  a  party  of  her  com- 
panions opened  the  door ;  she  knew  that  they  came  as  pur- 
chasers, and  she  dreaded  her  Flora's  becoming  the  prize  of 
some  higher  bidder.  "  Here,"  said  she,  hastily  putting  the 
box  into  the  pedler's  hand,  without  looking  at  it ;  "  take  it, 
and  give  me  the  Flora."  Her  hand  trembled,  though  she 
snatched  it  impatiently;  she  ran  by,  without  seeming  to 
mind  any  of  her  companions  —  she  almost  wished  to  turn 
back. 

Let  those  who  are  tempted  to  do  wrong  by  the  hopes  of 
future  gratification,  or  the  prospect  of  certain  concealment 
and  impunity,  remember  that,  unless  they  are  totally 
depraved,  they  bear  in  their  own  hearts  a  monitor,  who  will 
prevent  their  enjoying  what  they  have  ill  obtained. 

In  vain  Cecilia  ran  to  the  rest  of  her  companions  to  dis- 
play her  present,  in  hopes  that  the  applause  of  others  would 
restore  her  own  self-complacency ;  in  vain  she  saw  the  Flora 
pass  in  due  pomp  from  hand  to  hand,  each  vying  with  the 
other  in  extolling  the  beauty  of  the  gift,  and  the  generosity 
of  the  giver.  Cecilia  was  still  displeased  with  herself,  with 
them,  and  even  with  their  praise ;  from  Louisa's  gratitude, 
however,  she  yet  expected  much  pleasure,  and  immediately 
she  ran  up-stairs  to  her  room. 

In  the  mean  time  Leonora  had  gone  into  the  hall  to  buy 

a  bodkin ;  she  had  just  broken  hers.    In  giving  her  change, 

the  pedler  took  out  of  his  pocket,  with  some  halfpence,  the 

very  box  which  Cecilia  had  sold  to  him.     Leonora  did  not 

13 


194  THE     BRACELETS. 

in  the  least  suspect  the  truth,  for  her  mind  was  above  sus- 
picion ;  and  besides,  she  had  the  utmost  confidence  in  Cecilia. 
"  I  should  like  to  have  that  box,"  said  she,  "  for  it  is  like 
one  of  which  I  was  very  fond/7 

The  pedler  named  the  price,  and  Leonora  took  the  box : 
she  intended  to  give  it  to  little  Louisa. 

On  going  to  her  room  she  found  her  asleep,  and  she  sat 
down  softly  by  her  bedside.     Louisa  opened  her  eyes. 

"  I  hope  I  did  n't  disturb  you  ?"  said  Leonora. 

"  Oh  no  ;  I  did  n't  hear  you  come  in :  but  what  have  you 
got  there  ?" 

"It's  only  a  little  box;  would  you  like  to  have  it?  I 
bought  it  on  purpose  for  you,  as  I  thought  perhaps  it  would 
please  you ;  because  it 's  like  that  which  I  gave  Cecilia." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  that  out  of  which  she  used  to  give  me  Barbary 
drops :  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you ;  I  always  thought 
that  exceedingly  pretty,  and  this,  indeed,  is  as  like  it  as 
possible.     I  can't  unscrew  it :  will  you  try  V 

Leonora  unscrewed  it. 

"Goodness!"  exclaimed  Louisa,  "this  must  be  Cecilia's 
box :  look,  do  n't  you  see  a  great  L  at  the  bottom  of  it  ?" 

Leonora's  colour  changed ;  "  Yes,"  she  replied,  calmly 
"  I  see  that,  but  it  is  no  proof  that  it  is  Cecilia's ;  you  know 
that  I  bought  this  box  just  now  of  the  pedler." 

"  That  may  be,"  said  Louisa ;  "  but  I  remember  scratch- 
ing that  L  with  my  own  needle,  and  Cecilia  scolded  me  for 
it,  too;  do  go  and  ask  her  if  she  has  lost  her  box  —  do," 
repeated  Louisa,  pulling  her  by  the  sleeve,  as  she  did  not 
seem  to  listen. 

Leonora,  indeed,  did  not  hear,  for  she  was  lost  in  thought; 
she  was  comparing  circumstances,  which  had  before  escaped 
her  attention  ;  she  recollected  that  Cecilia  had  passed  her, 
as  she  came  into  the  hall,  without  seeming  to  see  her,  but 
had  blushed  as  she  passed.  She  remembered  that  the  ped- 
ler appeared  unwilling  to  part  with  the  box,  and  was  going 
to  put  it  again  into  his  pocket  with  the  halfpence :  "  And 


THE     BRACELETS.  195 

why  should  he  keep  it  in  his  pocket,  and  not  show  it  with 
his  other  things?"  Combining  all  these  circumstances, 
Leonora  had  no  longer  any  doubt  of  the  truth ;  for  though 
she  had  honourable  confidence  in  her  friends,  she  had  too 
much  penetration  to  be  implicitly  credulous.  "  Louisa/' 
she  began  ;  but  at  this  instant  she  heard  a  step,  which,  by 
its  quickness,  she  knew  to  be  Cecilia's,  coming  along  the 
passage.  "  If  you  love  me,  Louisa,"  said  Leonora,  "  say 
nothing  about  the  box." 

"  Nay,  but  why  not  ?  I  dare  say  she  has  lost  it." 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  'm  afraid  she  has  not."  Louisa  looked 
surprised. 

"  But  I  have  reasons  for  desiring  you  not  to  say  anything 
about  it." 

"  Well,  then,  I  won't  indeed." 

Cecilia  opened  the  door,  came  forward  smiling,  as  if  secure 
of  a  good  reception,  and  taking  the  Flora  out  of  the  case, 
she  placed  it  on  the  mantel-piece  opposite  to  Louisa's  bed. 
"  Dear,  how  beautiful !"  cried  Louisa,  starting  up. 

"Yes,"  said  Cecilia,  "  and  guess  who  it's  for?" 

"  For  me,  perhaps  !"  said  the  ingenuous  Louisa. 

"  Yes,  take  it,  and  keep  it  for  myself:  you  know  that  I 
broke  your  mandarin." 

"  Oh !  but  this  is  a  great  deal  prettier  and  larger  than 
that." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  is  ;  and  I  meant  that  it  should  be  so  ;  I 
should  only  have  done  what  I  was  bound  to  do  if  I  had  only 
given  you  a  mandarin." 

"Well,  and  that  would  have  been  enough,  surely;  but 
what  a  beautiful  crown  of  roses !  and  then  that  basket  of 
flowers !  they  almost  look  as  if  I  could  smell  them.  Dear 
Cecilia !  I  'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  won't  take  it 
by  way  of  payment  for  the  mandarin  you  broke ;  for  I  'm 
sure  you  could  not  help  that ;  and  besides,  I  should  have 
broken  it  myself  by  this  time.  You  shali  give  it  to  me 
entirely,  and  I  '11  keep  it  as  long  as  I  live  as  your  keepsake.* 


196  THE     BRACELETS. 

Louisa  stopped  short,  and  coloured.  The  word  keepsake 
recalled  the  box  to  her  mind,  and  all  the  train  of  ideas 
which  the  Flora  had  banished.  "  But,"  said  she,  looking 
up  wistfully  in  Cecilia's  face,  and  holding  the  Flora  doubt 
fully,  "  did  you—" 

Leonora,  who  was  just  quitting  the  room,  turned  her  head 
back,  and  gave  Louisa  a  look  which  silenced  her. 

Cecilia  was  so  infatuated  with  her  vanity,  that  she  nei- 
ther perceived  Leonora's  sign  nor  Louisa's  confusion,  but 
continued  showing  off  her  present,  by  placing  it  in  various 
situations,  till  at  length  she  put  it  into  the  case,  and  laying 
it  down  with  an  affected  carelessness  upon  the  bed,  "  I  must 
go  now,  Louisa.  Good-bye,"  said  she,  running  up,  and  kiss- 
ing her;  "but  I'll  come  again  presently;"  then,  clapping 
the  door  after  her,  she  went. 

But,  as  soon  as  the  fermentation  of  her  spirits  subsided, 
the  sense  of  shame,  which  had  been  scarcely  felt  when 
mixed  with  so  many  other  sensations,  rose  uppermost  in  her 
mind.  "  What !"  said  she  to  herself,  "  is  it  possible  that  I 
have  sold  what  I  promised  to  keep  for  ever?  and  what  Leo- 
nora gave  me  ?  and  I  have  concealed  it  too,  and  have  been 
making  a  parade  of  my  generosity.  Oh,  what  would  Leo- 
nora, what  would  Louisa,  what  would  everybody  think  of 
me,  if  the  truth  were  known?" 

Humiliated  and  grieved  by  these  reflections,  Cecilia  began 
to  search  in  her  own  mind  for  some  consoling  idea.  She 
began  to  compare  her  conduct  with  the  conduct  of  others 
of  her  own  age  ;  and,  at  length,  fixing  her  comparison  upon 
her  brother  George,  as  the  companion  of  whom,  from  her 
infancy,  she  had  been  habitually  the  most  emulous,  she 
recollected  that  an  almost  similar  circumstance  had  once 
happened  to  him,  and  that  he  had  not  only  escaped  disgrace, 
but  had  acquired  glory  by  an  intrepid  confession  of  his  fault. 
Her  father's  words  to  her  brother  on  the  occasion  she  also 
perfectly  recollected. 

"  Come  to  me,  George,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand , 


THE     BRACELETS.  197 

'•  you  are  a  generous  brave  boy :  they  who  dare  to  confess 
their  faults  will  make  great  and  good  men." 

These  were  his  words  ;  but  Cecilia,  in  repeating  them  to 
herself,  forgot  to  lay  that  emphasis  on  the  word  men,  which 
would  have  placed  it  in  contradistinction  to  the  word  women. 
She  willingly  believed,  that  the  observation  extended  equally 
to  both  sexes,  and  flattered  herself  that  she  should  exceed 
her  brother  in  merit  if  she  owned  a  fault  which  she  thought 
that  it  would  be  so  much  more  difficult  to  confess. 

"  Yes,  but,"  said  she,  stopping  herself,  "  how  can  I  confess 
it  ?  This  very  evening,  in  a  few  hours,  the  prize  will  be 
decided ;  Leonora  or  I  shall  win  it :  I  have  now  as  good  a 
chance  as  Leonora,  perhaps  a  better ;  and  must  I  give  up 
all  my  hopes  —  all  that  I  have  been  labouring  for  this  month 
past  ?  Oh,  I  never  can  !  If  it  were  but  to-morrow,  or  yes- 
terday, or  any  day  but  this,  I  would  not  hesitate ;  but  now 
I  am  almost  certain  of  the  prize,  and  if  I  win  it  —  well, 
why  then  I  will  —  I  think  I  will,  tell  all  —  yes,  I  will ;  I  am 
determined,"  said  Cecilia. 

Here  a  bell  summoned  them  to  dinner ;  Leonora  sat  oppo- 
site to  her,  and  she  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see  Cecilia 
look  so  gay  and  unconstrained.  "Surely,"  said  she  to  herself, 
"  if  Cecilia  had  done  this  that  I  suspect,  she  would  not,  she 
could  not,  look  as  she  does."  But  Leonora  little  knew  the 
cause  of  her  gayety  ;  Cecilia  was  never  in  higher  spirits  or 
better  pleased  with  herself,  than  when  she  had  resolved 
upon  a  sacrifice  or  a  confession. 

"  Must  not  this  evening  be  given  to  the  most  amiable  ? 
Whose,  then,  will  it  be  ?"  All  eyes  glanced  first  at  Cecilia, 
and  then  at  Leonora.  Cecilia  smiled,  Leonora  blushed.  "  I 
see  that  it  is  not  yet  decided,"  said  Mrs.  Villars  ;  and  imme- 
diately she  ran  up-stairs,  amid  confused  whisperings. 

Cecilia's  voice  could  be  distinguished  far  above  the  rest. 

"  How  can  she  be  so  happy !"  said  Leonora  to  herself: 
"oh,  Cecilia!  there  was  a  time  when  ycu  could  not  have 
neglected  me  so !  when  we  were  always  together,  the  best 


198  THE     BRACELETS. 

of  friends  and  companions ;  our  wishes,  tastes,  and  plea- 
sures the  same  !  Surely  she  did  once  love  me,"  said  Leo 
nora ;  "  but  now  she  is  quite  changed,  she  has  even  sold  my 
keepsake  ;  and  she  would  rather  win  a  bracelet  of  hair  from 
girls  whom  she  did  not  always  think  so  much  superior  to 
Leonora,  than  have  my  esteem,  my  confidence,  and  my 
friendship  for  her  whole  life  ;  yes,  for  her  whole  life,  for  1 
am  sure  she  will  be  an  amiable  woman.  Oh,  that  this  brace- 
let had  never  been  thought  of,  or  that  I  were  certain  of  her 
winning  it !  for  I  am  sure  that  I  do  not  wish  to  win  it  from 
her :  I  would  rather,  a  thousand  times  rather,  that  we  were 
as  we  used  to  be,  than  have  all  the  glory  in  the  world :  and 
how  pleasing  Cecilia  can  be  when  she  wishes  to  please ! 
How  candid  she  is !  how  much  she  can  improve  herself!  let 
me  be  just,  though  she  nas  offended  me  ;  she  is  wonderfully 
improved  within  the  last  month :  for  one  fault,  and  thai 
against  myself,  shall  I  forget  all  her  merits  ?" 

As  Leonora  said  these  last  words,  she  could  but  just  hear 
the  voices  of  her  companions ;  they  had  left  her  alone  in 
the  gallery ;  she  knocked  softly  at  Louisa's  door.  "  Come 
in,"  said  Louisa  ;  "  I  'm  not  asleep  ;  oh,"  said  she,  starting 
up  with  the  Flora  in  her  hand  the  instant  that  the  door  was 
opened,  "  I  'm  so  glad  you  are  come,  Leonora,  for  I  did  so 
long  to  hear  what  you  were  all  making  such  a  noise  about. 
Have  you  forgot  that  the  bracelet — " 

"Oh,  yes!  is  this  the  evening?" 

"  Well,  here 's  my  white  shell  for  you ;  I  have  kept  it  in 
my  pocket  this  fortnight;  and  though  Cecilia  did  give  me 
this  Flora,  I  still  love  you  a  great  deal  better." 

"  I  thank  you,  Louisa,"  said  Leonora,  gratefully ;  "  I  will 
take  your  shell,  and  I  shall  value  it  as  long  as  I  live ;  bui 
here  is  a  red  one,  and  if  you  wish  to  show  me  that  you  love 
me,  you  will  give  this  to  Cecilia ;  I  know  that  she  is  parti- 
cularly anxious  for  your  preference,  and  I  am  sure  that  she 
deserves  it." 

"  Yes,  if  I  could  I  would  choose  both  of  you ;  but  you 
know  I  can  only  choose  which  I  like  the  best." 


THE     BRACELETS.  199 

"  If  you  mean,  my  dear  Louisa,"  said  Leonora,  "  that  you 
like  me  the  best,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  ;  for,  indeed, 
I  wish  you  to  love  me,  but  it  is  enough  for  me  to  know  it  in 
private ;  I  should  not  feel  the  least  more  pleasure  at  hear- 
ing it  in  publio,  or  in  having  it  made  known  to  all  my  com- 
panions, especially  at  a  time  when  it  would  give  poor  Cecilia 
a  great  deal  of  pain." 

"  But  why  should  it  give  her  pain  ?  I  do  n't  like  her  for 
being  jealous  of  you." 

"Nay,  Louisa,  surely  you  don't  think  Cecilia  jealous; 
she  only  tries  to  excel  and  to  please ;  she  is  more  anxious 
to  succeed  than  I  am,  it  is  true,  because  she  has  a  great  deal 
more  activity,  and  perhaps  more  ambition ;  and  it  would 
really  mortify  her  to  lose  this  prize :  you  know  that  she 
proposed  it  herself;  it  has  been  her  object  for  this  month 
past,  and  I  am  sure  she  has  taken  great  pains  to  obtain  it." 

"But,  dear  Leonora,  why  should  you  lose  it?" 

"  Indeed,  my  dear,  it  would  be  no  loss  to  me  ;  and  if  it 
were,  I  would  willingly  suffer  it  for  Cecilia ;  for,  though  we 
seem  not  to  be  such  good  friends  as  we  used  to  be,  I  love 
her  very  much,  and  she  will  love  me  again,  I  am  sure  she 
will ;  when  she  no  longer  fears  me  as  a  rival,  she  will  again 
love  me  as  a  friend." 

Here  Leonora  heard  a  number  of  her  companions  running 
along  the  gallery.  They  all  knocked  hastily  at  the  door, 
calling,  "  Leonora  !  Leonora  !  will  you  never  come  ?  Cecilia 
has  been  with  us  this  half-hour." 

Leonora  smiled :  "  "Well,  Louisa,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  will 
you  promise  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  'm  sure,  by  the  way  they  speak  to  you,  that  they 
won't  give  you  the  prize  !"  said  the  little  Louisa,  and  the 
tears  started  into  her  eyes. 

"  They  love  me,  though,  for  all  that ;  and  as  for  the  prize, 
you  know  wh  mi  I  wish  to  have  it." 

"  L<  onora !  Leonora !"  called  her  impatient  companions ; 
"  do  ji't  you  hear  us  ?     What  are  you  about  ?" 


200  THE     BRACELETS. 

"  Oh,  she  never  will  take  any  trouble  about  anything," 
said  one  of  the  party;  "let's  go  away." 

"Oh,  go!  go!  make  haste,"  cried  Louisa;  "don't  stay, 
they  are  so  angry !     I  will,  I  will,  indeed !" 

"  Remember,  then,  that  you  have  promised  me/'*  said  Leo- 
nora, and  she  left  the  room.  During  all  this  time  Cecilia 
had  been  in  the  garden  with  her  companions.  The  ambi- 
tion which  she  had  felt  to  win  the  first  prize  —  the  prize  of 
superior  talents  and  superior  application  —  was  not  to  be 
compared  to  the  absolute  anxiety  which  she  now  expressed 
to  win  this  simple  testimony  of  the  love  and  approbation  of 
her  equals  and  rivals. 

To  employ  her  exuberant  activity  she  had  been  dragging 
branches  of  lilacs  and  laburnums,  roses  and  sweetbrier,  to 
ornament  the  bower  in  which  her  fate  was  to  be  decided.  It- 
was  excessively  hot,  but  her  mind  was  engaged,  and  she  was 
indefatigable.  She  stood  still,  at  last,  to  admire  her  works, 
her  companions  all  joining  in  loud  applause  ;  they  were  not 
a  little  prejudiced  in  her  favour  by  the  great  eagerness 
which  she  expressed  to  win  their  prize,  and  by  the  great 
importance  which  she  seemed  to  affix  to  the  preference  of 
each  individual.  At  last,  "Where  is  Leonora?"  cried  one 
of  them,  and  immediately,  as  we  have  seen,  they  ran  to  call 
her. 

Cecilia  was  left  alone  ;  overcome  with  heat,  and  too  vio- 
lent exertion,  she  had  hardly  strength  to  support  herself; 
each  moment  appeared  to  her  intolerably  long ;  she  was  in 
a  state  of  the  utmost  suspense,  and  all  her  courage  failed 
her ;  even  hope  forsook  her,  and  hope  is  a  cordial  which 
leaves  the  mind  depressed  and  enfeebled.  "  The  time  is  now 
come,"  said  Cecilia ;  "  in  a  few  moments  it  will  be  decided. 
In  a  few  moments  !  goodness  !  how  much  do  I  hazard !  If 
I  should  not  win  the  prize,  how  shall  I  confess  what  I  have 
done  ?  how  shall  I  beg  Leonora  to  forgive  me  ?  I  who  hoped 
to  restore  my  friendship  to  her  as  an  honour!  They  are 
goDe  to  seek  for  her  —  the  moment  she  appears  I  shall  be 


THE     BRACE1ETS.  201 

forgotten.     What  shall  —  what  shaL  I  do?"  said  Cecilia, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Such  was  her  situation,  when  Leonora,  accompanied  by 
her  companions,  opened  the  hall-door ;  they  most  of  them 
ran  forward  to  Cecilia.  As  Leonora  came  into  the  bower, 
she  held  out  her  hand  to  Cecilia :  "  "We  are  not  rivals,  but 
friends,  I  hope/'  said  she.  Cecilia  clasped  her  hand,  but 
ehe  was  in  too  great  agitation  to  speak. 

The  table  was  now  set  in  the  arbour  —  the  vase  was  now 
placed  in  the  middle.  "  Well,"  said  Cecilia,  eagerly,  "who 
begins?"  Caroline,  one  of  her  friends,  came  forward  first, 
and  then  all  the  others  successively.  Cecilia's  emotion  was 
hardly  conceivable.  "  Now,  they  are  all  in  !  count  them, 
Caroline." 

"  One,  two,  three,  four ;  the  numbers  are  both  equal." 

There  was  a  dead  silence. 

"  No,  they  are  not !"  exclaimed  Cecilia,  pressing  forward, 
and  putting  a  shell  into  the  vase  ;  "  I  have  not  given  mine, 
and  I  give  it  to  Leonora."  Then,  snatching  the  bracelet, 
"  It  is  yours,  Leonora,"  said  she ;  "  take  it,  and  give  me 
back  your  friendship."  The  whole  assembly  gave  a  univer- 
sal clap  and  shout  of  applause. 

"I  cannot  be  surprised  at  this  from  you,  Cecilia,"  said 
Leonora ;  "  and  do  you,  then,  still  love  me  as  you  used  to 
do?" 

"Oh,  Leonora!  stop!  don't  praise  me!  I  do  n't  deserve 
this !"  said  she,  turning  to  her  loudly  applauding  compa- 
nions ;  "you  will  soon  despise  me  —  oh,  Leonora,  you  will 
never  forgive  me  !  —  I  have  deceived  you  —  I  have  sold — " 

At  this  instant  Mrs.  Villars  appeared ;  the  crowd  divided 
—  she  had  heard  all  that  passed  from  her  window. 

"  I  applaud  your  generosity,  Cecilia,"  said  she  ;  "  but  I 
am  to  tell  you  that  in  this  instance  it  is  unsuccessful :  you 
have  it  not  in  your  power  to  give  the  prize  to  Leonora  —  it 
is  yours  —  I  have  another  vote  to  give  you;  you  have  for 
gotten  Louisa." 


202  THE     BRACELETS. 

"  Louisa !  but  surely,  ma'am,  Louisa  loves  Leonora  better 
than  she  does  me." 

"  She  commissioned  me,  however,"  said  Mrs.  Villars,  "  to 
give  you  a  red  shell ;  and  you  will  find  it  in  this  box." 

Cecilia  started,  and  turned  as  pale  as  death.  It  was  the 
fatal  box. 

Mrs.  Villars  produced  another  box;  she  opened  it  —  it 
contained  the  Flora :  "  And  Louisa  also  desired  me,"  said 
she,  "  to  return  you  this  Flora ;"  she  put  it  into  Cecilia's 
hand  —  Cecilia  trembled  so  that  she  could  not  hold  it  —  Leo- 
nora caught  it. 

"  Oh,  madam  !  —  oh,  Leonora !"  exclaimed  Cecilia ;  "  now 
I  have  no  hope  left ;  I  intended — I  was  just  going  to  tell — " 

"  Dear  Cecilia,"  said  Leonora,  "  you  need  not  tell  it  me  ; 
I  know  it  already,  and  I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart." 

"  Yes,  I  can  prove  to  you,"  said  Mrs.  Villars,  "  that  Leo- 
nora has  forgiven  you :  it  is  she  who  has  given  you  the 
prize  ;  it  was  she  who  persuaded  Louisa  to  give  you  her  vote. 
I  went  to  see  her  a  little  while  ago,  and  perceiving  by  her 
countenance  that  something  was  the  matter,  I  pressed  her 
to  tell  me  what  it  was. 

"'Why,  madam,'  said  she,  'Leonora  has  made  me  pro- 
mise to  give  my  shell  to  Cecilia ;  now  I  do  n't  love  Cecilia 
half  so  well  as  I  do  Leonora ;  besides,  I  would  not  have 
Cecilia,  think  I  vote  for  her  because  she  gave  me  a  Flora.' 
While  Louisa  was  speaking,"  continued  Mrs.  Villers,  "I 
saw  this  silver  box  lying  on  the  bed ;  I  took  it  up,  and  asked 
if  it  was  not  yours,  and  how  she  came  by  it. 

" '  Indeed,  madam,'  said  Louisa,  '  I  could  have  been 
almost  certain  that  it  was  Cecilia's ;  but  Leonora  gave  it 
me,  and  she  said  that  she  bought  it  of  the  pedler  this  morn- 
ing; if  anybody  else  had  told  me  so,  I  could  not  have 
believed  them,  because  I  remembered  the  box  so  well ;  but 
I  can't  help  believing  Leonora.' 

"  '  But  did  you  not  ask  Cecilia  about  it  ?'  said  I. 

"  '  No,  madam,'  replied  Louisa,  '  for  Leonora  forbade  me.' 


THE     BRACELETS.  203 

"  1  guessed  her  reason.  '  Well/  said  I,  '  give  me  the  box, 
and  I  will  carry  your  shell  in  it  to  Cecilia.' 

" '  Then,  madam/  said  she,  '  if  I  must  give  it  her,  pray 
do  take  the  Flora,  and  return  it  to  her  first,  that  she  may 
not  think  it  is  for  that  I  do  it/  " 

"  Oh,  generous  Leonora  I"  exclaimed  Cecilia ;  "  but  in- 
deed, Louisa,  I  cannot  take  your  shell." 

"  Then,  dear  Cecilia,  accept  of  mine  instead  of  it :  you 
cannot  refuse  it,  I  only  follow  your  example ;  as  for  the 
bracelet,"  added  Leonora,  taking  Cecilia's  hand,  "  I  assure 
you  I  do  n't  wish  for  it,  and  you  do,  and  you  deserve  it." 

"  No,"  said  Cecilia,  "  indeed  I  do  not  deserve  it ;  next  to 
you,  surely  Louisa  deserves  it  best." 

"  Louisa !  oh  yes,  Louisa !"  exclaimed  everybody,  with 
one  voice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Villars ;  "  and  let  Cecilia  carry  the 
bracelet  to  her  ;  she  deserves  that  reward.  For  one  fault  1 
cannot  forget  all  your  merits,  Cecilia ;  nor,  I  am  sure,  will 
your  companions." 

"  Then,  surely,  not  your  best  friend,"  said  Leonora,  kiss- 
ing her. 

Everybody  present  was  moved  —  they  looked  up  to  Leo- 
nora witb  respectful  and  affectionate  admiration. 

"  Oh,  Leonora !  how  I  love  you !  and  how  I  wish  to  be 
like  you!"  exclaimed  Cecilia;  "to  be  as  good,  as  gene- 
rous !" 

"  Rather  wish,  Cecilia,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Villars,  "  to  be 
as  just;  to  be  as  strictly  honourable,  and  as  invariably  con- 
sistent. Remember,  that  many  of  our  sex  are  capable  of 
as  great  efforts,  of  making  what  they  call  great  sacrifices 
to  virtue  or  to  friendship ;  but  few  treat  their  friends  witb 
habitual  gentleness,  or  uniformly  conduct  themselves  with 
prudence  and  good  sense." 


THE  LITTLE  MERCHANTS. 


CHAPTEK  I. 

Chi  di  gallina  nasce  convien  che  rozole. 

As  the  old  cock  crows  so  crows  the  young. 

Those  who  have  visited  Italy  give  us  an  agreeable  picture 
of  the  cheerful  industry  of  the  children  of  all  ages  in  the 
celebrated  city  of  Naples :  their  manner  of  living,  and  then 
numerous  employments,  are  exactly  described  in  the  follow 
ing  "  Extract  from  a  Traveller's  Journal."  * 

"  The  children  are  busied  in  various  ways.  A  great  num- 
ber of  them  bring  fish  for  sale  to  town  from  Santa  Lucia ; 
others  are  very  often  seen  about  the  arsenals,  or  wherever 
carpenters  are  at  work,  employed  in  gathering  up  the  chips 
and  pieces  of  wood ;  or  by  the  seaside  picking  up  sticks, 
and  whatever  else  has  drifted  ashore,  which,  when  their 
basket  is  full,  they  carry  away.  Children  of  two  or  three 
years  old,  who  can  scarcely  crawl  along  upon  the  ground, 
in  company  with  boys  of  five  or  six,  are  employed  in  this 
potty  trade.  Hence  they  proceed  with  their  baskets  into 
the  heart  of  the  city,  where  in  sevsral  places  they  form  a 
sort  of  little  market,  sitting  round  with  their  stock  of  wood 
before  them.  Labourers  and  the  lower  order  of  citizens  buy 
it  of  them,  to  burn  in  the  tripods  for  warming  themselves, 
or  to  use  in  their  scanty  kitchens.  Other  children  carry 
about  for  sale  the  water  of  the  sulphurous  wells,  which, 

*  Varieties  of  Literature,  vol.  i.  p.  29; 

(204) 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.          205 

particularly  in  the  spring  season,  is  drunk  in  great  abun- 
dance. Others  again  endeavour  to  turn  a  few  pence  by  buy- 
ing a  small  matter  of  fruit,  of  pressed  honey,  cakes,  and 
comfits,  and  then,  like  little  pedlers,  offer  and  sell  them  to 
other  children,  always  for  no  more  profit  than  that  they  may 
have  their  share  of  them  free  of  expense.  It  is  really  curi- 
?us  to  see  how  an  urchin,  whose  whole  stock  and  property 
consists  in  a  board  and  a  knife,  will  carry  about  a  water- 
melon, or  a  half-roasted  gourd,  collect  a  troup  of  children 
round  him,  set  down  his  board,  and  proceed  to  divide  the 
fruit  into  small  pieces  among  them.  The  buyers  keep  a 
sharp  look-out,  to  see  that  they  have  enough  for  their  little 
piece  of  copper ;  and  the  Lilliputian  tradesman  acts  with  no 
less  caution,  as  the  exigencies  of  the  case  may  require,  to 
prevent  his  being  cheated  out  of  a  morsel." 

The  advantages  of  truth  and  honesty,  and  the  value  of  a 
character  for  integrity,  are  very  early  felt  among  these  little 
merchants  in  their  daily  intercourse  with  each  other.  The 
fair  dealer  is  always  sooner  or  later  seen  to  prosper ;  the 
most  cunning  cheat  is  at  least  detected  and  disgraced. 

Numerous  instances  of  the  truth  of  this  common  obser- 
vation were  remarked  by  many  Neapolitan  children,  espe- 
cially by  those  who  were  acquainted  with  the  characters  and 
history  of  Piedro  and  Francisco,  two  boys  originally  equal 
in  birth,  fortune  and  capacity,  but  different  in  their  educa- 
tion, and  consequently  in  their  habits  and  conduct.  Fran- 
cisco was  the  son  of  an  honest  gardener,  who,  from  the  time 
he  could  speak,  taught  him  to  love  to  speak  the  truth ; 
showed  him  that  liars  are  never  believed  ;  that  cheats  and 
thieves  cannot  be  trusted,  and  that  the  shortest  way  to 
obtain  a  good  character  is  to  deserve  it.  Youth  and  white 
paper,  as  the  proverb  says,  take  all  impressions.  The  boy 
profited  much  by  the  father's  precepts,  and  more  by  his 
example :  he  always  heard  his  father  speak  the  truth,  and 
saw  that  he  dealt  fairly  with  everybody.  In  all  his  childish 
traffic  Francisco,  imitating  his  parents,  was  scrupulously 


20C  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

honest,  and  therefore  all  his  companions  trusted  him.  "  As 
honest  as  Francisco  !"  became  a  sort  of  proverb  among 
them. 

"  As  honest  as  Francisco,"  repeated  Piedro's  father,  when 
he  one  day  heard  this  saying ;  "let  them  say  so ;  I  say,  '  As 
sharp  as  Piedro/  and  let  us  see  which  will  go  through  the 
world  best."  With  the  idea  of  making  his  son  sharp,  he 
made  him  cunning ;  he  taught  him,  that  to  make  a  good  bar- 
gain  was  to  deceive  as  to  the  value  and  price  of  whatever 
he  wanted  to  dispose  of,  to  get  as  much  money  as  possible 
from  customers  by  taking  advantage  of  their  ignorance  or 
of  their  confidence :  he  often  repeated  his  favourite  proverb, 
"  The  buyer  has  need  of  a  hundred  eyes  ;  the  seller  has  need 
but  of  one  ;"  *  and  he  took  frequent  opportunities  of  explain- 
ing the  meaning  of  this  maxim  to  his  son.  He  was  a  fish- 
erman, and  as  his  gains  depended  more  upon  fortune  than 
upon  prudence,  he  trusted  habitually  to  his  good  luck. 
After  being  idle  for  a  whole  day,  he  would  cast  his  line  or 
his  nets,  and  if  he  was  lucky  enough  to  catch  a  fine  fish,  he 
would  go  and  show  it  in  triumph  to  his  neighbour  the  gar- 
dener. "  You  are  obliged  to  work  all  day  long  for  your  daily 
bread,"  he  would  say ;  "  look  here,  I  work  but  five  minutes, 
and  I  have  not  only  daily  bread,  but  daily  fish."  Upon 
these  occasions  our  fisherman  always  forgot,  or  neglected  to 
count,  the  hours  and  days  which  were  wasted  in  waiting  for 
a  fair  wind  to  put  to  sea,  or  angling  in  vain  on  the  shore. 
Little  Piedro,  who  used  to  bask  in  the  sun  upon  the  sea- 
shore beside  his  father,  and  to  lounge  or  sleep  away  his  time 
in  a  fishing-boat,  acquired  habits  of  idleness,  which  seemed 
to  his  father  of  little  consequence  while  he  was  but  a  child. 
"  What  will  you  do  with  Piedro  as  he  grows  up,  neighbour  ?" 
said  the  gardener ;  "  he  is  smart  and  quick  enough,  but  he 
is  always  in  mischief.  Scarcely  a  day  has  passed  for  this 
fortnight  but  I  have  caught  him  among  my  grapes.   I  track 

*  Chi  compra  ha  bisogna  di  cent  occhi,  chi  vende  n'ha  assai  di  uno. 


THE     LITTLE     MEKCIIANTS.         207 

his  footsteps  all  over  my  vineyard."  —  "  He  is  hut  a  child 
yet,  and  knows  no  better,"  replied  the  fisherman.  "  But  if 
you  do  n't  teach  him  better  now  he  is  a  child,  how  will  he 
know  better  when  he  is  a  man  ?"  said  the  gardener.  "  A 
mighty  noise  about  a  bunch  of  grapes,  truly  \"  cried  the 
fisherman ;  "  a  few  grapes  more  or  less  in  your  vineyard, 
what  does  it  signify?"  —  "I  speak  for  your  son's  sake,  and 
not  for  the  sake  of  my  grapes,"  said  the  gardener ;  "  and  I 
tell  you  again,  the  boy  will  not  do  well  in  the  world,  neigh- 
bour, if  you  don't  look  after  him  in  time."  —  "He'll  do 
well  enough  in  the  world,  you  will  find,"  answered  the  fish- 
erman, carelessly ;  "  whenever  he  casts  my  nets,  they  never 
come  up  empty.  *  It  is  better  to  be  lucky  than  wise.' "  * 
This  was  a  proverb  which  Piedro  had  frequently  heard  from 
his  father,  and  to  which  he  most  willingly  trusted,  because 
it  gave  him  less  trouble  to  fancy  himself  fortunate  than  to 
make  himself  wise.  "  Come  here,  child,"  said  his  father  to 
him,  when  he  returned  home  after  the  preceding  conversa- 
tion with  the  gardener ;  "  how  old  are  you,  my  boy  —  twelve 
years  old,  is  it  not?"  —  "As  old  as  Francisco,  and  older  by 
six  months,"  said  Piedro.  "  And  smarter  and  more  know- 
ing by  six  years,"  said  his  father.  "  Here,  take  these  fish 
to  Naples,  and  let  us  see  how  you  '11  sell  them  for  me.  Ven- 
ture a  small  fish,  as  the  proverb  says,  to  catch  a  great  one.f 
I  was  too  late  with  them  at  the  market  yesterday,  but 
nobody  will  know  but  what  they  are  just  fresh  out  of  the 
water,  unless  you  go  and  tell  them."  —  "  Not  I,  trust  me  for 
that,  I  'm  not  such  a  fool,"  replied  Piedro,  laughing ;  "  I 
leave  that  to  Francisco.  Do  you  know  I  saw  him  the  other 
day  miss  selling  a  melon  for  his  father  by  turning  the 
bruised  side  to  the  customer,  who  was  just  laying  down  the 
money  for  it,  and  who  was  a  raw  servant-boy,  moreover; 
one  who  would  never  have  guessed  there  were  two  sides  to 

*  E'meglio  esser  fortunato  cue  savio. 

f  Butta  una  sardella  per  piglier  un  luccio. 


208  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

a  melon,  if  he  had  not,  as  you  say,  father,  been  told  of  it." 
—  "  Off  with  you  to  market ;  you  are  a  droll  chap,"  .said  his 
father,  "and  will  sell  my  fish  cleverly,  I '11  be  bound ;  as  to 
the  rest,  let  every  man  take  care  of  his  own  grapes  —  you 
understand  me,  Piedro?" —  "  Perfectly,"  said  the  boy,  who 
perceived  that  his  father  was  indifferent  as  to  his  honesty, 
provided  he  sold  fish  at  the  highest  price  possible.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  the  market,  and  he  offered  his  fish  with  assiduity 
to  every  person  whom  he  thought  likely  to  buy  it,  especially 
to  those  upon  whom  he  thought  he  could  impose.  He  posi- 
tively asserted  to  all  who  looked  at  his  fish,  that  they  were 
just  fresh  out  of  the  water;  good  judges  of  men  and  fish 
knew  that  he  said  what  was  false,  and  passed  him  by  with 
neglect ;  but  it  was  at  last  what  he  called  his  good  luck  to 
meet  with  the  very  same  young  raw  servant-boy  who  would 
have  bought  the  bruised  melon  from  Francisco.  He  made 
up  to  him  directly,  crying,  "  Fish !  Fine  fresh  fish !  fresh 
fish  \"  —  "  Was  it  caught  to-day  ?"  said  the  boy.  "  Yes,  this 
morning ;  not  an  hour  ago/'  said  Piedro,  with  the  greatest 
effrontery.  The  servant-boy  was  imposed  upon,  and,  being 
a  foreigner,  speaking  the  Italian  language  but  imperfectly, 
and  not  being  expert  at  reckoning  the  Italian  money,  he 
was  no  match  for  the  cunning  Piedro,  who  cheated  him,  not 
only  as  to  the  freshness,  but  as  to  the  price  of  the  commo- 
dity. Piedro  received  nearly  half  as  much  again  for  his 
fish  as  he  ought  to  have  done. 

On  his  road  homeward  from  Naples  to  the  little  village 
of  Resina,  where  his  father  lived,  he  overtook  Francisco, 
who  was  leading  his  father's  ass ;  the  ass  was  laden  with  large 
panniers,  which  were  filled  with  the  stalks  and  leaves  of 
cauliflowers,  cabbages,  broccoli,  lettuces,  &c,  all  the  refuse 
of  the  Neapolitan  kitchens,  which  are  usually  collected  bj ' 
the  gardeners'  boys,  and  carried  to  the  gardens  round  Naples, 
to  be  mixed  with  other  manure. 

"  "Well-filled  panniers,  truly,"  said  Pedro,  as  he  overtook 
Francisco  and  the   ass.     The   panniers  were,  indeed,  not 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.         209 

only  filled  to  the  top,  but  piled  up  with  much  skill  and  care, 
bo  that  the  load  met  over  the  animal's  back.  "  It  is  not  a 
very  heavy  load  for  the  ass,  though  it  looks  so  large,"  said 
Francisco  ;  "  poor  fellow,  however,  he  shall  have  a  little  of 
this  water,"  added  he,  leading  the  ass  to  a  pool  by  the  road- 
side. "  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  ass,  man ;  I  was  not 
thinking  of  any  ass,  but  of  you,  when  I  said,  well-filled 
panniers,  truly !  This  is  your  morning's  work,  I  presume, 
and  you'll  make  another  journey  to  Naples  to-day  on  the 
same  errand,  I  warrant,  before  your  father  thinks  you  have 
done  enough."  —  "Not  before  my  father  thinks  I  have  done 
enough,  but  before  I  think  so  myself,"  replied  Francisco. 
"  I  do  enough  to  satisfy  myself  and  my  father,  too,  without 
slaving  myself  after  your  fashion.  Look  here,"  said  Piedro, 
producing  the  money  he  had  received  for  the  fish  ;  "all  this 
was  had  for  asking  for ;  it 's  no  bad  thing,  you  '11  allow,  to 
know  how  to  ask  for  money  properly."  —  "I  should  be 
ashamed  to  beg,  or  to  borrow  either,"  said  Francisco.  "  Nei- 
ther did  I  get  what  you  see  by  begging,  or  borrowing 
either,"  said  Piedro,  "  but  by  using  my  wits ;  not  as  you 
did  yesterday,  when,  like  a  novice,  you  showed  the  bruised 
Bide  of  your  melon,  and  so  spoiled  your  market  by  your  wis- 
dom." —  "  Wisdom  I  think  it  still,"  said  Francisco.  "  And 
your  father  ?"  —  "  And  my  father,"  said  Francisco.  "  Mine 
is  of  a  different  way  of  thinking,"  said  Piedro  ;  "  he  always 
tells  me,  that  the  buyer  has  need  of  a  hundred  eyes,  and  if 
one  can  blind  the  whole  hundred,  so  much  the  better.  You 
must  know,  I  got  off  the  fish  to-day  that  my  father  could  not 
sell  yesterday  in  the  market.  Got  it  off  for  fresh  just  out 
of  the  river  —  got  twice  as  much  as  the  market  price  for  it, 
and  from  whom,  think  you  ?  Why,  from  the  very  booby 
that  would  have  bought  the  bruised  melon  for  a  sound  one, 
if  you  would  have  let  him.  You  '11  allow  I  'm  no  fool,  Fran- 
cisco, and  that  I  'm  in  a  fair  way  to  grow  rich,  if  I  go  on  as 
I  have  begun."  —  "Stay,"  said  Francisco,  "you  forgot  that 
the  booby  you  took  in  to-day  will  not  be  so  easily  taken  ir 
14 


210         THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

to-morrow.  He  will  buy  no  more  fish  from  you,  "because  hfl 
will  be  afraid  of  your  cheating  him ;  but  he  will  be  ready 
enough  to  buy  fruit  from  me,  because  he  will  know  I  shall 
not  cheat  him  ;  so  you  '11  have  lost  a  customer,  and  I  gained 
one."  —  "With  all  my  heart,"  said  Piedro,  "one  customer 
does  not  make  a  market ;  if  he  buys  no  more  from  me,  what 
care  I,  there  are  people  enough  to  buy  fish  in  Naples."  — 
"And  do  you  mean  to  serve  them  all  in  the  same  manner?" 
—  "  If  they  will  be  only  so  good  as  to  give  me  leave,"  said 
Piedro,  laughing,  and  repeating  his  father's  proverb,  "  ven- 
ture a  small  fish  to  catch  a  large  one."  He  had  learned  to 
think,  that  to  cheat  in  making  bargains  was  witty  and  cle- 
ver. "  And  you  have  never  considered,  then,"  said  Fran- 
cisco, "  that  all  these  people  will,  one  after  another,  find  you 
out  in  time  ?"  —  "  Ay,  in  time,  but  it  will  be  some  time  first ; 
there  are  a  great  many  of  them,  enough  to  last  me  all  sum- 
mer, if  I  lose  a  customer  a  day,"  said  Piedro.  "  And  next 
summer,  what  will  you  do  ?"  —  "  Next  summer  is  not  come 
yet;  there  is  time  enough  to  think  what  I  shall  do  before 
next  summer  comes.  Why,  now,  suppose  the  blockheads, 
after  they  had  been  taken  in,  and  found  it  out,  all  joined 
against  me,  and  would  buy  none  of  our  fish — What  then? 
Are  there  no  trades  going  but  that  of  a  fisherman  ?  In  Na- 
ples are  there  not  a  hundred  ways  of  making  money  for  a 
smart  lad  like  me  ?  as  my  father  says.  What  do  you  think 
of  turning  merchant,  and  selling  sugar-plums  and  cakes  to 
the  children  in  their  market  ?  Would  they  be  hard  to  deal 
with,  think  you?"  —  "I  think  not,"  said  Francisco;  "but 
I  think  the  children  would  find  out  in  time  if  they  were 
cheated,  and  would  like  it  as  little  as  the  men."  —  "  I  do  n't 
doubt  them ;  then  in  time  I  could,  you  know,  change  my 
trade,  sell  chips  and  sticks  in  the  wood  market ;  hand  about 
lemonade  to  the  fine  folks,  or  twenty  other  things.  There 
are  trades  enough,  man."  —  "  Yes,  for  the  honest  dealer," 
said  Francisco,  "  but  for  no  other ;  for  in  all  of  them  you'll 
find,  as  my  father  says,  that  a  good  character  is  the  be»t 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  211 

fortune  to  set  up  with.  Change  your  trade  ever  so  often, 
you  '11  be  found  out  for  what  you  are  at  last."  —  "  And  what 
am  I,  pray?"  said  Piedro,  angrily;  "the  whole  truth  of 
the  matter  is,  Francisco,  that  you  envy  my  good  luck,  and 
can't  bear  to  hear  the  money  jingle  in  my  hand.  Ay,  stroke 
the  long  ears  of  your  ass,  and  look  as  wise  as  you  please. 
It's  better  to  be  lucky  than  wise,  as  my  father  says.  Good- 
morning  to  you ;  when  I  am  found  out  for  what  I  am,  or 
when  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  I  can  drive  a  stupid  ass, 
with  his  panniers  filled  with  rubbish,  as  well  as  you  do  now, 
honest  Francisco."  —  "  Not  quite  so  well ;  unless  you  were 
honest  Francisco,  you  would  not  fill  his  panniers  quite  s.o 
readily." 

This  was  certain,  that  Francisco  was  so  well  known  for 
his  honesty  among  all  the  people  at  Naples  with  whom  his 
father  was  acquainted,  that  every  one  was  glad  to  deal  with 
him  ;  and  as  he  never  wronged  any  one,  all  were  willing  to 
serve  him,  at  least  as  much  as  they  could  without  loss  to 
themselves  ;  so  that  after  the  market  was  over,  his  panniers 
were  regularly  filled  by  the  gardeners  and  others  with  what- 
ever he  wanted.  His  industry  was  constant,  his  gains  small, 
but  certain,  and  he  every  day  had  more  and  more  reason  to 
trust  to  his  father's  maxim  —  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy. 

The  foreign  servant  lad,  to  whom  Francisco  had  so  hon- 
estly, or,  as  Piedro  said,  so  sillily,  showed  the  bruised  side 
of  the  melon,  was  an  Englishman.'  He  left  his  native  coun- 
try, of  which  he  was  extremely  fond,  to  attend  upon  his 
master,  to  whom  he  was  still  more  attached.  His  master 
was  in  a  declining  state  of  health,  and  this  young  lad 
waited  upon  him  more  to  his  mind  than  his  other  servants. 
We  must,  in  consideration  of  his  zeal,  fidelity,  and  inexperi- 
ence, pardon  him  for  not  being  a  good  judge  of  fish.  Though 
he  had  simplicity  enough  to  be  easily  cheated  once,  he  had 
too  much  sense  to  be  twice  made  a  dupe.  The  next  time  he 
met  Piedro  in  the  market,  he  happened  to  be  in  company 
with  several  English  gentlemen's  servants,  and  he  pointed 


212         THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

Piedro  out  to  them  all  as  an  arrant  knave  ;  they  heard  his 
cry  of  "  Fresh  fish !  fresh  fish !  fine  fresh  fish  !"  with  incre- 
dulous smiles,  and  let  him  pass,  but  not  without  some 
expressions  of  contempt,  which,  though  uttered  in  English, 
he  tolerably  well  understood,  for  the  tone  of  contempt  is 
sufficiently  expressive  in  all  languages.  He  lost  more  by 
not  selling  his  fish  to  these  people  than  he  gained  the  day 
before  by  cheating  the  English  booby.  The  market  was  well 
supplied,  and  he  could  not  get  rid  of  his  cargo.  "  Is  not 
this  truly  provoking  ?"  said  he,  as  he  passed  by  Francisco, 
who  was  selling  fruit  for  his  father.  "  Look,  my  basket  is 
as  heavy  as  when  I  left  home ;  and,  look  at  'em  yourself, 
they  really  are  fine  fresh  fish  to-day,  and  yet,  because  that 
revengeful  booby  told  how  I  took  him  in  yesterday,  not  one 
of  yonder  crowd  would  buy  them :  and  all  the  time  they 
really  are  fresh  to-day."  —  "  So  they  are,"  said  Francisco ; 
•'  but  you  said  so  yesterday  when  they  were  not,  and  he  that 
was  duped  then  is  not  ready  to  believe  you  to-day.  How 
does  he  know  that  you  deserve  it  better?"  —  "He  might 
have  looked  at  the  fish  ;  they  are  fresh  to-day.  I  am  sure," 
repeated  Piedro,  "  he  need  not  have  been  afraid  to-day."  — 
"  Ay,"  said  Francisco,  "  but,  as  my  father  said  to  you  once 
—  The  scalded  dog  fears  cold  water."  * 

Here  their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  approach 
of  this  same  English  lad,  who  smiled  as  he  came  up  to  Fran- 
cisco, and  taking  up  a  fine  pineapple,  he  said,  in  a  mixture 
of  bad  Italian  and  English  —  "I  need  not  look  at  the  other 
side  of  this  —  you  will  tell  me  if  it  is  not  as  good  as  it 
looks  ;  name  your  price,  I  know  you  have  but  one,  and  that 
an  honest  one ;  and  as  to  the  rest,  I  am  able  and  willing  to 
pay  for  what  I  buy ;  that  is  to  say,  my  master  is,  which 
comes  to  the  same  thing.  I  wish  your  fruit  could  make  him 
well,  and  it  would  be  worth  its  weight  in  gold,  to  me  at 
least.     We  must  have  some  of  your  grapes  for  him."  —  "  Is 

*  II  can  scottato  de  l'acqua  calda  ha  paura  poi  della  fredda. 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  213 

not  he  well  ?  We  must  then  pick  out  the  best  for  him," 
said  Francisco,  singling  out  a  tempting  bunch  —  "I  hope 
he  will  like  these ;  but  if  you  could  some  day  come  as  far 
as  Resina,  it  is  a  village  but  a  few  miles  out  of  town,  where 
we  have  our  vineyard,  you  could  there  choose  for  yourself, 
and  pluck  them  fresh  from  the  vines  for  your  poor  master." 
—  "  Bless  you,  my  good  boy,  I  should  take  you  for  an  Eng- 
lishman, by  your  way  of  dealing.  I  '11  come  to  your  village, 
only  write  me  down  the  name,  for  your  Italian  names  slip 
through  my  head  ;  I  '11  come  to  your  vineyard,  if  it  was  ten 
miles  off;  and  all  the  time  we  stay  in  Naples  (may  it  not 
be  so  long  as  I  fear  it  will!)  I'll,  with  my  master's  leave, 
which  he  never  refuses  me  to  anything  that  's  proper,  and 
that 's  what  this  is,  deal  with  you  for  all  our  fruit,  as  sure 
as  my  name's  Arthur,  and  with  none  else  with  my  good- 
will. I  wish  all  your  countrymen  would  take  after  you  in 
honesty  —  so  I  do,"  —  concluded  the  Englishman,  looking 
full  at  Piedro,  who  took  up  his  heavy  melancholy  basket  of 
fish,  and  walked  off,  looking  somewhat  silly. 

Arthur,  the  English  servant,  was  as  good  as  his  word  ;  he 
dealt  constantly  with  Francisco,  and  proved  an  excellent 
customer,  buying  from  him  during  the  whole  season  as 
much  fruit  as  his  master  wanted.  His  master,  who  was  an 
Englishman  of  distinction,  was  invited  to  take  up  his  resi- 
dence, during  his  stay  in  Italy,  at  the  Count  de  F.'s  villa, 
which  was  in  the  environs  of  Naples,  an  easy  walk  from 
Resina.  Francisco  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  father's 
vineyard  often  full  of  generous  visiters ;  and  Arthur,  who 
had  circulated  the  anecdote  of  the  bruised  melon,  was,  he 
said,  "  proud  to  think  that  some  of  this  was  his  doing,  and 
that  an  Englishman  never  forgot  a  good  turn,  be  it  from  a 
countryman  or  foreigner." 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Francisco's  father  to  him,  while 
Arthur  was  in  the  vineyard  helping  to  tend  the  vines,  "  I 
am  to  thank  you  and  your  honesty,  it  seems,  for  our  having 
our  hands  so  full  of  business  this  season.     It  is  fair  you 


214         THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

should  have  a  share  of  our  profits." —  "  So  I  have,  fatner, 
enough  and  enough,  when  I  see  you  and  mother  going  on 
so  well.  What  can  I  want  more  V  —  "  Oh,  my  brave  boy, 
we  know  you  are  a  grateful  good  son ;  but  I  have  been  your 
age  myself;  you  have  companions ;  you  have  little  expenses 
of  your  own.  Here,  this  vine,  this  fig-tree,  and  a  melon  a 
week  next  summer,  shall  be  yours  —  with  these  you  '11  mako 
a  fine  figure  among  the  little  Neapolitan  merchants  —  and 
all  I  wish  is,  you  may  prosper  as  well,  and  by  the  same 
honest  means,  in  managing  for  yourself,  as  you  have  done 
managing  for  me."  —  "  Thank  you,  father ;  and  if  I  prosper 
at  all,  it  shall  be  by  those  means  and  no  other,  or  I  shall 
not  be  worthy  to  be  called  your  son." 

Piedro  the  cunning  did  not  make  quite  so  successful  a 
Bummer's  work  as  did  Francisco  the  honest.  No  extraordi- 
nary events  happened,  no  singular  instance  of  bad  or  good 
luck  occurred ;  but  he  felt,  as  persons  usually  do,  the  natu- 
ral consequences  of  his  own  actions.  He  pursued  his 
scheme  of  imposing,  as  far  as  he  could,  upon  every  person 
he  dealt  with  ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  at  last  nobody 
would  deal  with  him.  "  It  is  easy  to  out-wit  one  person, 
but  impossible  to  out-wit  all  the  world,"  said  a  man*  who 
knew  the  world  at  least  as  well  as  either  Piedro  or  his  father. 
Piedro' s  father,  among  others,  had  reason  to  complain ;  he 
saw  his  old  customers  fall  off  from  him,  and  was  told,  when- 
ever he  went  into  the  market,  that  his  son  was  such  a  cheat 
there  was  no  dealing  with  him.  One  day,  when  he  was 
returning  from  market  in  a  very  bad  humour  in  consequence 
of  these  reproaches,  and  of  his  not  having  found  customers 
for  his  goods,  he  espied  his  smart  son  Piedro  at  a  little  mer- 
chant's fruit-board,  devouring  a  fine  gourd  with  prodigious 
greediness.  "  Where,  glutton,  do  you  find  money  to  pay 
for  these  dainties  ?"  exclaimed  his  father,  coming  close  up 

*  The  Duke  de  Rochefoucault —  "On  peut  etre  plus  fin  qu;un 
»utre,  mais  pas  nlus  fin  que  tous  les  autres.'' 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  215 

to  hirn  with  angry  gestures.  Piedro's  mouth  was  much  too 
full  to  make  an  immediate  reply,  nor  did  his  father  wait  for 
any,  but  darting  his  hand  into  the  youth's  pocket,  pulled 
forth  a  handful  of  silver.  "  The  money,  father,"  said  Pie- 
dro,  "  that  I  got  for  the  fish  yesterday,  and  that  I  meant  to 
give  you  to-day,  before  you  went  out."  —  "Then  I'll  make 
you  remember  it  against  another  time,  sirrah  I"  said  his 
father.  "  I  '11  teach  you  to  fill  your  stomach  with  my  money ! 
Am  I  to  lose  my  customers  by  your  tricks,  and  then  find 
you  here  eating  my  all  ?  You  are  a  rogue,  and  everybody 
has  found  you  out  to  be  a  rogue  ;  and  the  worst  of  rogues 
I  find  you,  who  scruples  not  to  cheat  his  own  father."  Say- 
ing these  words,  with  great  vehemence  he  seized  hold  of 
Piedro,  and  in  the  very  midst  of  the  little  fruit-market  gave 
him  a  severe  beating.  This  beating  did  the  boy  no  good ; 
it  was  vengeance,  not  punishment.  Piedro  saw  that  his 
father  was  in  a  passion,  and  knew  that  he  was  beaten 
because  he  was  found  out  to  be  a  rogue,  rather  than  for 
being  one  ;  he  recollected  perfectly,  that  his  father  once  said 
to  him,  "Let  every  one  take  care  of  his  own  grapes."  In- 
deed, it  was  scarcely  reasonable  to  expect  that  a  boy,  who 
had  been  educated  to  think  that  he  might  cheat  every  cus- 
tomer he  could  in  the  way  of  trade,  should  be  afterward 
scrupulously  honest  in  his  conduct  towards  the  father  whose 
proverbs  encouraged  his  childhood  in  cunning.  Piedro 
writhed  with  bodily  pain,  as  he  left  the  market  after  his 
drubbing ;  but  his  mind  was  not  in  the  least  amended  ;  on 
the  contrary,  he  was  hardened  to  the  sense  of  shame  by  the 
loss  of  reputation.  All  the  little  merchants  were  spectators 
of  this  scene,  and  heard  his  fatherrs  words  —  "  You  are  a 
rogue,  and  the  worst  of  rogues,  who  scruples  not  to  cheat 
his  own  father."  These  words  were  long  remembered,  and 
long  did  Piedro  feel  their  effects.  He  once  flattered  himself, 
that,  when  his  trade  of  selling  fish  failed  him,  he  could 
readily  engage  in  some  other ;  but  he  now  found,  to  hia 
mortification,  that  what  Francisco's  father  said  proved  true. 


216  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

"  In  all  trades,  the  best  fortune  to  set  up  with  is  a  good 
character."  Not  one  of  the  little  Neapolitan  merchants 
would  either  enter  into  partnership  with  him,  give  him  cre- 
dit, or  even  trade  with  him  for  ready  money.  "If  you 
would  cheat  your  own  father,  to  be  sure  you  would  cheat 
us,"  was  continually  said  to  him  by  these  prudent  little  peo- 
ple. Piedro  was  taunted  and  treated  with  contempt  at  home 
and  abroad.  His  father,  when  he  found  that  his  son's 
smartness  was  no  longer  useful  in  making  bargains,  shoved 
him  out  of  his  way  whenever  he  met  him  ;  all  the  food  or 
clothes  that  he  had  at  home  seemed  to  be  given  to  him 
grudgingly,  and  with  such  expressions  as  these  —  "  Take 
that,  but  it  is  too  good  for  you ;  you  must  eat  this  now, 
instead  of  gourds  and  figs,  and  be  thankful  you  have  even 
this."  Piedro  spent  a  whole  winter  very  unhappily ;  he 
expected  that  all  his  old  tricks,  and  especially  what  his 
father  had  said  of  him  in  the  market-place,  would  be  soon 
forgotten ;  but  month  passed  after  month,  and  still  these 
things  were  fresh  in  the  memory  of  all  who  had  known 
them.  It  is  not  easy  to  get  rid  of  a  bad  character.  A  very 
very  great  rogue  *  was  once  heard  to  say,  that  he  would, 
with  all  his  heart,  give  ten  thousand  pounds  for  a  good 
character,  because  he  knew  that  he  could  make  twenty  thou- 
sand by  it.  Something  like  this  was  the  sentiment  of  our 
cunning  hero,  when  he  experienced  the  evils  of  a  bad  repu- 
tation, and  when  he  saw  the  numerous  advantages  which 
Francisco's  good  character  procured.  Such  had  been  Pie- 
dro's  wretched  education,  that  even  the  hard  lessons  of 
experience  could  not  alter  its  pernicious  effects.  He  was 
sorry  his  knavery  had  been  detected,  but  he  still  thought  it 
clever  to  cheat,  and  was  secretly  persuaded,  that,  if  he  had 
cheated  successfully,  he  should  have  been  happy.  "  But  I 
know  I  am  not  happy  now,"  said  he  to  himself  one  morn 
ing,  as  he  sat  alone  disconsolate  by  the  se  a-shore,  dressed 

*  Chartres. 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  217 

to  tattered  garments,  weak  and  hungry,  with  an  empty  bas- 
ket beside  him.  His  fishing-rod,  which  he  held  between  his 
knees,  bent  over  the  dry  sands  instead  of  into  the  water,  for 
he  was  not  thinking  of  what  he  was  about ;  his  arms  were 
folded,  his  head  hung  down,  and  his  ragged  hat  was  slouched 
over  his  face.  He  was  a  melancholy  spectacle.  Francisco, 
as  he  was  coming  from  his  father's  vineyard  with  a  large  dish 
of  purple  and  white  grapes  upon  his  head,  and  a  basket  of 
melons  and  figs  hanging  upon  his  arm,  chanced  to  see  Piedro 
seated  in  this  melancholy  posture.  Touched  with  compas- 
sion, Francisco  approached  him  softly  ;  his  footsteps  were  not 
heard  upon  the  sands,  and  Piedro  did  not  perceive  that  any 
one  was  near  him,  till  he  felt  something  cold  touch  his 
hand ;  he  then  started,  and  looking  up,  saw  a  bunch  of  ripe 
grapes,  which  Francisco  was  holding  over  his  head.  "  Eat 
them,  you  '11  find  them  very  good,  I  hope/'  said  Francisco, 
with  a  benevolent  smile. 

"They  are  excellent  —  most  excellent,  and  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you,  Francisco,"  said  Piedro.  "  I  was  very  hun- 
gry, and  that 's  what  I  often  am  now,  without  anybody's 
caring  anything  about  it.  I  am  not  the  favourite  I  was 
with  my  father,  but  I  know  it  is  all  my  own  fault." 

"  Well,  but  cheer  up,"  said  Francisco,  "  my  father  alway 
says,  '  One  who  knows  he  has  been  in  fault,  and  acknow 
ledges  it,  will  scarcely  be  in  fault  again.'  Yes,  take  as 
many  figs  as  you  will,"  continued  he,  and  he  held  his  bas- 
ket closer  to  Piedro,  who,  as  he  saw,  cast  a  hungry  eye  upon 
one  of  the  ripe  figs.  "  But,"  said  Piedro,  after  he  had 
taken  several,  "  shall  not  I  get  you  into  a  scrape  by  taking 
so  many  ?     Won't  your  father  be  apt  to  miss  them  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  give  them  to  you  if  they  were  not 
my  own  ?"  said  Francisco,  with  a  sudden  glance  of  indig- 
nation. "  Well,  do  n't  be  angry  that  I  asked  the  question  ; 
it  was  only  from  fear  of  getting  you  into  disgrace  that  I 
asked  it."  —  "  It  would  not  be  easy  for  anybody  to  do  that, 
I  hope,"  said  Francisco,  rather  proudly.     "  And  to  me  less 


218  THE     LIT1LE     MERCHANTS. 

than  anybody,"  replied  Piedro,  in  an  insinuating  tone,  *'  i, 
that  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  !"  —  "A  bunch  of  grapes, 
and  a  few  figs  are  no  mighty  obligation,"  said  Francisco, 
smiling;  "I  wish  I  could  do  more  for  you;  you  seem, 
indeed,  to  ha  ye  been  very  unhappy  of  late;  we  never  see 
you  in  the  markets  as  we  used  to  do."  —  "  No,  ever  since 
my  father  beat  me,  and  called  me  rogue  before  all  the  chil- 
dren there,  I  have  never  been  able  to  show  my  face  without 
being  gibed  at  by  one  or  t'  other.  If  you  would  but  take 
me  along  with  you  among  them,  and  only  just  seem  my 
friend  for  a  day  or  two,  or  so,  it  would  quite  set  me  up  again, 
for  they  all  like  you."  —  "I  would  rather  be  than  seem  your 
friend,  if  I  could,"  said  Francisco.  "  Ay,  to  be  sure,  that 
would  be  still  better,"  said  Piedro,  observing  that  Francisco, 
as  he  uttered  his  last  sentence,  was  separating  the  grapes 
and  other  fruit  into  two  equal  divisions  —  "to  be  sure,  I 
would  rather  you  would  be  than  seem  a  friend  to  me ;  but  I 
thought  that  was  too  much  to  ask  at  first ;  though  I  have  a 
notion  —  notwithstanding  I  have  been  so  unlucky  lately  — 
[  have  a  notion  you  would  have  no  reason  to  repent  of  it ; 
you  would  find  me  no  bad  hand  if  you  were  to  try,  and  take 
me  into  partnership."  —  "  Partnership  V  interrupted  Fran- 
cisco, drawing  back  alarmed —  "  I  had  no  thoughts  of  that." 
—  "  But  won't  you,  can't  you,"  said  Piedro,  in  a  supplicating 
tone;  "  can't  you  have  thoughts  of  it?  You'd  find  me  a 
very  active  partner."  Francisco  still  drew  back,  and  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground  —  he  was  embarrassed,  for 
he  pitied  Piedro,  and  he  scarcely  knew  how  to  point  out  to 
him  that  something  more  is  necessary  in  a  partner  in  trade 
besides  activity  —  honesty.  "  Can't  you  ?"  repeated  Piedro, 
thinking  that  he  hesitated  from  merely  mercenary  motives 
"  You  shall  have  what  share  of  the  profits  you  please."  — 
"  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  profits,"  said  Francisco  ;  "  but, 
without  meaning  to  be  ill-natured  to  you,  Piedro,  I  must  say 
that  I  cannot  enter  into  any  partnership  with  you  at  pre- 
sent :  but  I  will  do  what,  perhaps,  you  will  like  as  well/' 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  219 

staid  he,  taking  half  the  fruit  out  of  his  basket.  "  Yoj.  are 
heartily  welcome  to  this ;  try  and  sell  it  in  the  children's 
fruit  market;  I'll  go  on  before  you,  and  speak  to  those  I 
am  acquainted  with,  and  tell  them  that  you  are  going  to  set 
up  a  new  character,  and  that  you  hope  to  make  it  a  good 
one.  Hey,  shall  I ?"  —  "  Thank  you  for  ever,  dear  Francis 
co,"  said  Piedro,  seizing  his  plentiful  gift  of  fruit ;  "  say 
what  you  please  for  me."  —  "  But  do  n't  make  me  say  any- 
thing that  is  not  true,"  said  Francisco,  pausing.  "  No,  to 
be  sure  not,"  said  Piedro ;  "  I  do  mean  to  give  no  room  for 
scandal.  If  I  could  get  them  to  trust  me  as  they  do  you,  I 
should  be  happy  indeed."  —  "  That  is  what  you  may  do,  if 
you  please,"  said  Francisco.  "  Adieu,  I  wish  you  well,  with 
all  my  heart ;  but  I  must  leave  you  now,  or  I  shall  be  too 
late  for  the  market." 


CHAPTER   II. 

Chi  va  piano,  va  aano,  e  anche  lontano. 
Fair  and  softly  goes  far  in  a  day. 

Piedro  had  now  an  opportunity  to  establish  a  good  char- 
acter. When  he  went  into  the  market  with  his  grapes  apd 
figs,  he  found  that  he  was  not  shunned  or  taunted  as  usual ; 
all  seemed  disposed  to  believe  in  his  intended  reformation, 
and  to  give  him  a  fair  trial.  These  favourable  dispositions 
towards  him  were  the  consequence  of  Francisco's  benevo- 
lent representations ;  he  told  them  that  he  thought  Piedro 
had  suffered  enough  to  cure  him  of  his  tricks,  that  it  would 
bo  cruelty  in  them,  because  he  might  once  have  been  in 
fault,  to  banish  him  by  their  reproaches  from  among  them, 
and  thus  to  prevent  him  from  the  means  of  gaining  his  liveli- 
hood honestly.  Piedro  made  a  good  beginning,  and  gave 
what  several  of  the  younger  customers  thought  excellent 
bargains ;  his  grapes  and  figs  were  quickly  sold ;  and  with 


220  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

the  money  that  he  got  for  them,  he  the  next  day  pur 
chased  from  a  fruit-dealer  a  fresh  supply,  and  thus  he  went 
on  for  some  time,  conducting  himself  with  scrupulous 
honesty,  so  that  he  acquired  some  credit  among  his  compa- 
nions. They  no  longer  watched  him  with  suspicious  eyes ; 
they  trusted  to  his  measures  and  weights,  and  they  counted 
less  carefully  the  change  which  they  received  from  him 
The  satisfaction  he  felt  from  this  alteration  in  their  manners 
was  at  first  delightful  to  him ;  but  in  proportion  to  his  cre- 
dit, his  opportunities  of  defrauding  increased,  and  these 
became  temptations  which  he  had  not  the  firmness  to  resist. 
His  old  manner  of  thinking  recurred.  "  I  make  nut  a  few 
shillings  a  day,  and  this  is  but  slow  work,"  said  he  to  him- 
self. "  What  signifies  my  good  character,  if  I  make  so  little 
by  it  ?"  "  Light  gains,  and  frequent,  make  a  heavy  purse,"* 
was  one  of  Francisco's  proverbs.  But  Piedro  wa«  in  too 
great  haste  to  get  rich  to  take  time  into  his  account.  He 
set  his  invention  to  work,  and  he  did  not  want  for  ingenuity 
to  devise  means  of  cheating,  without  running  the  risk  of 
detection.  He  observed  that  the  younger  part  of  t^e  com- 
munity were  extremely  fond  of  certain  coloured  sugar  ^lurns, 
and  of  burnt  almonds  ;  with  the  money  he  had  earned  by 
two  months'  trading  in  fruit  he  laid  in  a  large  st**^k,  or 
what  appeared  to  these  little  merchants  a  large  st-*ck,  of 
these  almonds  and  sugar-plums  ;  and  he  painted  in  capital 
gold-coloured  letters  upon  his  board,  "  The  sweetest,  largest, 
most  admirable  sugar-plums  of  all  colours  ever  sold  in 
Naples  to  be  had  here ;  and,  in  gratitude  to  his  numerous 
customers,  Piedro  adds  to  these,  burnt  almonds  gratis  " 

This  advertisement  attracted  the  attention  of  all  who 
could  read,  and  many  who  could  not  read  heard  it  reputed 
with  delight.  Crowds  of  children  surrounded  Piedro's 
board  of  promise,  and  they  all  went  away  the  first  day 
amply  satisfied ;  each  had  a  full  measure  of  coloured  sugar- 

*  Poco  e  spesso  empie  il  borsetto. 


THE    LITTLE     MERCHANTS.         221 

plums  at  the  usual  price,  and  along  with  these  a  burnt 
almond  gratis.  The  burnt  almond  had  such  an  effect  upon 
the  public  judgment,  that  it  was  universally  allowed  the 
sugar-plums  were,  as  the  advertisement  set  forth,  the  largest, 
sweetest,  most  admirable  ever  sold  in  Naples;  though  all 
the  time  these  were  in  no  respect  better  than  any  other 
sugar-plums.  It  was  generally  reported  that  Piedro  gave  full 
measure,  fuller  than  was  to  be  had  at  any  other  board  in  the 
city  ;  he  measured  the  sugar-plums  in  a  little  cubical  tin  box, 
and  this,  it  was  affirmed,  he  heaped  up  to  the  top,  and  pressed 
down  before  he  poured  out  the  contents  into  the  open  hands 
of  his  approving  customers.  This  belief,  and  Piedro's  popu- 
larity, continued  longer  even  than  he  expected ;  and  as  he 
thought  his  sugar-plums  had  now  secured  their  reputation 
with  the  generous  public,  he  gradually  neglected  to  add 
burnt  almonds  gratis.  One  day  a  boy  of  about  ten  years 
old  passed  carelessly  by,  whistling  as  he  went  along,  and 
twinging  a  carpenter's  rule  in  his  hand.  "Ha!  what  have 
we  here  ?"  cried  he,  stopping  to  read  what  was  written  on 
Piedro's  board.  "  This  promises  rarely.  Old  as  I  am,  and 
tall  of  my  age,  which  makes  the  matter  worse,  I  am  still  as 
fond  of  sugar-plums  as  my  little  sister,  who  is  five  years 
younger  than  I.  —  Come,  signor,  fill  me  quick,  for  I  am  in 
haste  to  taste  them,  two  measures  of  the  sweetest,  largest, 
most  admiraole  sugar-plums  in  Naples  —  one  measure  fos 
myself,  amd  one  for  my  little  Rosetta." —  "You'll  pay  foi 
yourself  and  your  sister  then/'  said  Piedro,  "  for  no  credit 
is  given  here."  —  "  No  credit  do  I  ask,"  replied  the  lively 
boy ;  "  when  I  told  you  I  loved  sugar-plums,  did  I  tell  you  I 
loved  them,  or  even  my  sister,  so  well  as  to  run  in  debt  for 
them  ?  Here 's  for  myself,  and  here 's  for  my  sister's  share," 
said  he,  laying  down  his  money;  "and  now  for  the  burnt 
almonds  gratis,  my  good  fellow."  —  "  They  are  all  out;  I 
hav*  been  out  of  burnt  almonds  this  great  while,"  said  Pie- 
dro "  Then  why  are  they  in  your  advertisement  here  ?" 
said  €arlo.     "  I  have  not  had  time  to  scratch  them  out  of 


222         THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

the  board."  — "  "What,  not  when  you  have,  by  your  own 
account,  been  out  of  them  a  great  while  ?  I  did  not  know 
it  required  so  much  time  to  blot  out  a  few  words  —  let  us 
try ;"  and  as  he  spoke,  Carlo,  for  that  was  the  name  of  Pie- 
dro's  new  customer,  pulled  a  bit  of  white  chalk  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  drew  a  broad  score  across  the  line  on  the  board 
which  promised  burnt  almonds  gratis.  "  You  are  most 
impatient,"  said  Piedro ;  "  I  shall  have  a  fresh  stock  of 
almonds  to-morrow."  —  "  Why  must  the  board  tell  a  lie 
to-day?"  —  "It  would  ruin  me  to  alter  it,"  said  Piedro. 
"  A  lie  may  ruin  you,  but  I  can  scarcely  think  the  truth 
could."  —  "  You  have  no  right  to  meddle  with  me,  or  my 
board,"  said  Piedro,  put  off  his  guard,  and  out  of  his  usual 
soft  voice  of  civility,  by  this  last  observation.  "  My  charac- 
ter, and  that  of  my  board,  are  too  firmly  established  now 
for  any  chance  customer  like  you  to  injure."  —  "I  never 
dreamed  of  injuring  you  or  any  one  else,"  said  Carlo  ;  "  I 
wish,  moreover,  that  you  may  not  injure  yourself.  Do  as 
you  please  with  your  board,  but  give  me  my  sugar-plums, 
for  I  have  some  right  to  meddle  with  those,  having  paid  for 
them."  —  "  Hold  out  your  hand  then."  —  "  No,  put  them  in 
here,  if  you  please,  put  my  sister's  at  least  in  here,  she  likes 
to  have  them  in  this  box  ;  I  bought  some  for  her  in  it  yes- 
terday, and  she  '11  think  they  '11  taste  the  better  out  of  the 
same  box.  But  how  is  this  ?  your  measure  does  not  fill  my 
box  nearly ;  you  give  us  a  very  few  sugar-plums  for  our 
money."  —  "I  give  you  full  measure,  as  I  give  to  every- 
body."—  "The  measure  should  be  an  inch  cube,  I  know," 
said  Carlo;  "that's  what  all  the  little  merchants  have 
agreed  to,  you  know."  —  "True,"  said  Piedro,  "so  it  is." 
—  "  And  so  it  is,  I  must  allow,"  said  Carlo,  measuring  the 
outside  of  it  with  the  carpenter's  rule  which  he  held  in  his 
hand,  "  an  inch  every  way ;  and  yet,  by  my  eye  —  and  I 
have  no  bad  one,  being  used  to  measuring  carpenters'  work 
for  my  father  —  by  my  eye  I  should  think  this  would  have 
held  more  sugar-plums."  —  "The  eye  often  deceives  us," 


I 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.         223 

said  Piedro ;  "  there  's  nothing  like  measuring,  you  find." 

—  "  There 's  nothing  like  measuring,  I  find,  indeed,"  replied 
Carlo,  as  he  looked  closely  at  the  end  of  his  rule,  which, 
since  he  spoke  last,  he  had  put  into  the  tin  cube  to  take  its 
depth  in  the  inside.  "  This  is  not  as  deep  by  a  quarter  of 
an  inch,  Signor  Piedro,  measured  within  as  it  is  measured 
without."  Piedro  changed  colour  terribly,  and  seizing  hold 
of  the  tin  box,  endeavoured  to  wrest  it  from  the  youth  who 
measured  so  accurately.  Carlo  held  his  prize  fast,  and  lift- 
ing it  above  his  head,  he  ran  into  the  midst  of  the  square 
where  the  little  market  was  held,  exclaiming,  "A  discovery! 
a  discovery !  that  concerns  all  who  love  sugar-plums.  A 
discovery !  a  discovery !  that  concerns  all  who  have  ever 
bought  the  sweetest,  largest,  most  admirable  sugar-plums 
ever  sold  in  Naples." 

The  crowd  gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  square  as  he 
spoke.  "  We  have  bought,"  and  "  We  have  bought  of  those 
sugar-plums,"  cried  several  little  voices  at  once,  "  if  you 
mean  Piedro's."  —  "  The  same,"  continued  Carlo :  "  he  who, 
out  of  gratitude  to  his  numerous  customers,  gives,  or  pro- 
mises to  give,  burnt  almonds  gratis."  — "  Excellent  they 
were!"  cried  several  voices.  "We  all  know  Piedro  well; 
but  what's  your  discovery?"  —  "My  discovery  is,"  said 
Carlo,  "  that  you  none  of  you  know  Piedro.    Look  you  here 

—  look  at  this  box,  this  is  his  measure  —  it  has  a  false  bot- 
tom, it  holds  only  three  quarters  as  much  as  it  ought  to  do, 
and  his  numerous  customers  have  all  been  cheated  of  one 
quarter  of  every  measure  of  the  admirable  sugar-plums 
they  have  bought  from  him.  '  Think  twice  of  a  good  bar- 
gain/ says  the  proverb."  —  "  So  we  have  been  finely  duped 
indeed,"  cried  some,  looking  at  one  another  with  a  morti- 
fied air  "  '  Full  of  courtesy,  full  of  craft  \tn*  —  "  So  this 
is  the  meaning  of  his  burnt  almonds  gratis,"  cried  others ; 

*  Chi  te  fa  piu  carezza  che  non  suole, 
0  ingannato  t'ha,  o  ingannar  te  vuole. 


224          THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

all  joined  in  an  uproar  of  indignation,  except  one,  who,  as 
he  stood  behind  the  rest,  expressed  in  his  countenance  silent 
surprise  and  sorrow.  —  "  Is  this  Piedro  a  relation  of  jours  V 
said  Carlo,  going  up  to  this  silent  person ;  "  I  am  sorry,  if 
he  be,  that  I  have  published  his  disgrace,  for  I  would  not 
hurt  you;  you  do  n't  sell  sugar-plums  as  he  does,  I  'm  sure, 
for  my  little  sister  Rosetta  has  often  bought  from  you.  Can 
this  Piedro  be  a  friend  of  yours  V-  —  "I  wished  to  have  been 
his  friend,  but  I  see  I  can't,"  said  Francisco ;  "  he  is  a 
neighbour  of  ours,  and  I  pitied  him  ;  but  since  he  is  at  his 
old  tricks  again,  there  -8  an  end  of  the  matter.  I  have  rea- 
son to  be  obliged  to  you,  for  I  was  nearly  taken  in ;  he  has 
behaved  so  well  for  some  time  past,  that  I  intended  this 
very  evening  to  go  to  him,  and  to  tell  him  that  I  was  will- 
ing to  do  for  him  what  he  has  long  begged  of  me  to  do,  to 
enter  into  partnership  with  him."  —  "Francisco!  Francis- 
co !  —  your  measure  ;  lend  us  your  measure  I"  exclaimed  a 
number  of  the  little  merchants,  crowding  round  him.  "  You 
have  a  measure  for  sugar-plums,  and  we  have  all  agreed  to 
refer  to  that,  and  to  see  how  much  we  have  been  cheated 
before  we  go  to  break  Piedro's  bench,  and  declare  him  bank- 
rupt,* the  punishment  for  all  knaves."  They  pressed  on  to 
Francisco's  board,  obtained  his  measure,  and  found  that  it 
held  something  more  than  a  quarter  above  the  quantity  that 
could  be  contained  in  Piedro's.  The  cries  of  the  enraged 
populace  were  now  most  clamorous  ;  they  hung  the  just  and 
unjust  measure  upon  high  poles,  and  forming  themselves 
into  a  formidable  phalanx,  they  proceeded  towards  Pedro's 
well-known  yellow-lettered  board,  exclaiming,  as  they  went 
along,  "  Common  cause  !  common  cause  !  the  little  Neapoli- 
tan merchants  will  have  no  knaves  among  them !     Break 

*  This  word  comes  from  two  Italian  words  —  Banco  rotto,  broken 
oench.  Bankers  and  merchants  used  formerly  to  count  their  money 
and  write  their  bills  of  exchange  upon  benches  in  the  streets ;  and 
when  a  merchant  or  banker  lost  his  credit,  and  was  unable  to  pay 
his  debts,  his  bench  was  broken. 


i 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  225 

his  bench !  Break  his  bench !  He  is  a  bankrupt  in  ho- 
nesty." 

Piedro  saw  the  mob,  heard  the  indignant  clamour,  and, 
terrified  at  the  approach  of  numbers,  he  fled  with  the  utmost 
precipitation,  having  scarcely  time  to  pack  up  half  his  sugar- 
plums ;  there  was  a  prodigious  number,  more  than  would 
have  filled  many  honest  measures,  scattered  upon  the  ground 
and  trampled  under  foot  by  the  erowd.  Piedro's  bench  was 
broken,  and  the  public  vengeance  wreaked  itself  upon  his 
treacherous  painted  board.  It  was,  after  being  much  disfi- 
gured by  various  inscriptions  expressive  of  the  universal  con- 
tempt for  Piedro,  hung  up  in  a  conspicuous  part  of  the 
market-place,  and  the  false  measure  was  fastened  like  a  cap 
upon  one  of  its  corners.  Piedro  could  never  more  show  his 
face  in  this  market,  and  all  hopes  of  friendship,  all  hopes  of 
partnership  with  Francisco,  were  for  ever  at  an  end. 

If  rogues  could  calculate,  they  would  cease  to  be  rogues, 
for  they  would  certainly  discover  that  it  is  most  for  their 
interest  to  be  honest.  Setting  aside  the  pleasure  of  being 
esteemed  and  beloved,  of  having  a  safe  conscience,  with 
perfect  freedom  from  all  the  various  embarrassments  and 
terrors  to  which  knaves  are  subject ;  is  it  not  clear  that  our 
crafty  hero  would  have  gained  rather  more  by  a  partnership 
with  Francisco,  and  by  a  fair  character,  than  he  could  pos- 
sibly obtain  by  fraudulent  dealing  in  comfits  ? 

When  the  mob  had  dispersed,  after  satisfying  themselve? 
with  executing  summary  justice  upon  Piedro's  bench  and 
board,  Francisco  found  a  carpenter's  rule  lying  upon  th<* 
ground  near  Piedro's  broken  bench,  which  he  recollected  fct» 
have  seen  in  the  hands  of  Carlo :  he  examined  it  carefully, 
and  he  found  Carlo's  name  written  upon  it,  and  the  name 
of  the  street  where  he  lived ;  and  though  it  was  considera- 
bly out  of  his  way,  he  set  out  immediately  to  restore  th*» 
rule,  which  was  a  very  handsome  one,  to  its  rightful  owner. 
After  a  hot  walk  through  several  streets,  he  overtook  Carlo, 
who  had  just  reached  the  door  of  his  own  house.  Carlo  was 
15 


226  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

particularly  obliged  to  him,  he  said,  for  restoring  this  rule 
to  him,  as  it  was  a  present  from  the  master  of  a  vessel  who 
employed  his  father  to  do  carpenters'  work  for  him.  "  One 
should  not  praise  one's  self,  they  say,"  continued  Carlo ; 
"  but  I  long  so  much  to  give  you  a  good  opinion  of  me,  that 
I  must  tell  you  the  whole  history  of  the  rule  you  have 
saved :  it  was  given  to  me  for  having  measured  the  work 
and  made  up  the  bill  of  a  whole  pleasure-boat  myself.  You 
may  guess  I  should  have  been  sorry  enough  to  lose  it. 
Thank  you  for  its  being  once  more  in  my  careless  hands ; 
and  tell  me,  I  beg,  whenever  I  can  do  you  any  service  — 
by-the-bye,  I  can  make  up  for  you  a  fruit-stall ;  I  '11  do  it 
to-morrow,  and  it  shall,  be  the  admiration  of  the  market.  Is 
there  anything  else  you  could  think  of  for  me  ?"  —  "  Why, 
yes,"  said  Francisco,  "  since  you  are  so  good-natured,  per- 
haps you'll  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  the  meaning  of  some 
of  those  lines  and  figures  that  I  see  upon  your  rule ;  I  have 
a  great  curiosity  to  know  their  use."  —  ''That  I'll  explain 
to  you  with  pleasure,  as  far  as  I  know  them  myself;  but 
when  I  'm  at  fault,  my  father,  who  is  cleverer  than  I  am, 
and  understands  trigonometry,  can  help  us  out."  —  "  Trig- 
onometry !"  repeated  Francisco,  not  a  little  alarmed  at  this 
high-sounding  word ;  "that's  what  I  certainly  shall  never 
understand."  —  "  Oh,  never  fear,"  replied  Carlo,  laughing : 
"  I  looked  just  as  you  do  now,  —  I  felt  just  as  you  do  now, 
—  all  in  a  fright  and  a  puzzle,  when  I  first  heard  of  angles, 
and  sines,  and  ver-sines,  and  co-sines,  and  arcs,  and  centres, 
and  complements,  and  tangents."  —  "  Oh,  mercy  !  mercy !" 
interrupted  Francisco,  while  Carlo  laughed,  with  a  sense, 
but  with  a  benevolent  sense,  of  superiority.  "  "Why,"  said 
he,  "  you  '11  find  all  these  things  are  nothing  when  you  are 
used  to  them  —  but  I  cannot  explain  my  rule  to  you  here 
broiling  in  the  sun  —  besides,  it  will  not  be  the  work  of  a 
day,  I  promise  you ;  but  come  and  see  us  at  your  leisure 
hours,  and  we'll  study  it  together  —  I  have  a  great  notiop 
vre  shall  become  friends,  and,  t")  begin,  step  in  with  mf 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  227 

new,''  said  Carlo,  "  and  eat  a  little  maccaroni  with  us ;  I 
know  it  is  ready  by  this  time  :  besides,  you  '11  see  my  father, 
and  he  '11  show  you  plenty  of  rules  and  compasses,  as  you 
like  such  things,  and  then  I  '11  go  home  with  you  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  and  you  shall  show  me  your  melons  and  vines, 
and  teach  me  in  time  something  of  gardening.  Oh,  I  see 
we  must  be  good  friends,  just  made  for  each  other ;  so  come 
in  — no  ceremony." 

Carlo  was  not  mistaken  in  his  predictions  ;  he  and  Fran- 
cisco became  very  good  friends,  spent  all  their  leisure  hours 
together,  either  in  Carlo's  workshop  or  in  Francisco's  vine- 
yard, and  they  mutually  improved  each  other.  Francisco, 
before  he  saw  his  friend's  rule,  knew  but  just  enough  of 
arithmetic  to  calculate  in  his  head  the  price  of  the  fruit 
which  he  sold  in  the  market ;  but  with  Carlo's  assistance, 
and  with  the  ambition  to  understand  the  tables  and  figures 
upon  the  wonderful  rule,  he  set  to  work  in  earnest,  and  in 
due  time  satisfied  both  himself  and  his  master.  "  Who 
knows  but  these  things  that  I  am  learning  now  may  be  of 
some  use  to  me  before  I  die  ?"  said  Francisco,  as  he  was 
sitting  one  morning  with  his  tutor  the  carpenter.  "  To  be 
sure  it  will,"  said  the  carpenter,  putting  down  his  com- 
passes, with  which  he  was  drawing  a  circle :  "  arithmetic 
is  a  most  useful  and,  I  was  going  to  say,  necessary  thing  to 
be  known  by  men  in  all  stations,  and  a  little  trigonometry 
does  no  harm ;  in  short,  my  maxim  is,  no  knowledge  comes 
amiss,  for  a  man's  head  is  of  as  much  use  to  him,  and  more 
than  his  hands. 

'A  word  to  the  wise  will  always  suffice.'  * 

Besides,  to  say  nothing  of  making  a  fortune,  is  not  there  » 
great  pleasure  in  being  something  of  a  scholar,  and  being 
able  to  pass  one's  time  with  one's  book,  and  one's  compasses 
and  pencil  ?  Safe  companions  these  for  young  and  old ;  nc 
one  gets  into  mischief  that  has  pleasant  things  to  think  of 

*  A  buon  intenditor,  poche  par»le. 


228  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

and  to  do  when  alone ;  and  I  know,  for  my  part,  trigono 
metry  is — " 

Here  the  carpenter,  just  as  he  was  going  to  pronounce  a 
fresh  panegyric  upon  his  favourite  trigonometry,  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  sudden  entrance  of  his  little  sister  Rosetta, 
all  in  tears,  a  very  unusual  spectacle :  Rosetta,  take  the 
year  round,  shed  fewer  tears  than  any  child  of  her  age  in 
Naples.  "Why,  my  dear  good-humoured  little  Rosetta, 
what  has  happened  —  why  these  large  tears  ?"  said  her  bro- 
ther Carlo ;  and  he  went  up  to  her,  and  wiped  them  from 
her  cheeks.  "  And  these  that  are  going  over  the  bridge  of 
the  nose  so  fast,  I  must  stop  these  tears  too,"  said  Carlo. 
Rosetta  at  this  speech  burst  out  a-laughing,  and  said,  "  that 
she  did  not  know  till  then  that  she  had  any  bridge  on  her 
nose."  —  "  And  were  these  shells  the  cause  of  your  tears?" 
said  her  brother,  looking  at  a  heap  of  shells  which  she  held 
before  her  in  her  frock.  "  Yes,  partly,"  said  Rosetta ;  "  it 
was  partly  my  own  fault,  but  not  all.  You  know  I  went  out 
to  the  carpenters'  yard,  near  the  arsenal,  whei  e  all  the  chil- 
dren are  picking  up  chips  and  sticks  so  busily ;  and  I  was 
as  busy  as  any  of  them,  because  I  wanted  to  fill  my  basket 
soon,  and  then  I  thought  I  should  sell  my  basketful  directly 
in  the  little  wood-market.  And  as  soon  as  I  had  filled  my 
basket,  and  made  up  my  fagot,  which  was  not  done,  brother, 
till  I  was  almost  baked  by  the  sun,  for  I  was  forced  to  wait 
by  the  carpenters  for  the  bits  of  wood  to  make  up  my  fagot, 
I  say,  when  it  was  all  ready,  and  my  basket  full,  I  left  it  all 
together  in  the  yard."  —  "  That  was  not  wise,  to  leave  it," 
said  Carlo.  "  But  I  only  left  it  for  a  few  minutes,  brother, 
and  I  could  not  think  anybody  would  be  so  dishonest  as  to 
take  it  while  I  was  away.  I  only  fust  ran  to  tell  a  boy,  who 
had  picked  up  these  beautiful  shells  upon  the  sea-shore,  and 
who  wanted  to  sell  them,  that  I  should  be  glad  to  buy  them 
from  him  if  he  would  only  be  so  good  as  to  keep  them  for 
me  for  an  h  )ur  or  so,  till  I  had  carried  my  wood  to  market, 
and  till  I  had  sold  it,  and  so  had  money  to  pay  him  for  the 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.         229 

shells."  —  "Tour  heart  was  set  mightily  on  these  shells, 
Rosetta."  —  "  Yes ;  for  I  thought  you  and  Francisco,  bro- 
ther, would  like  to  have  them  for  your  nice  grotto  that  you 
are  making  at  Resina ;  that  was  the  reason  I  was  in  such  a 
hurry  to  get  them.  The  boy  who  had  them  to  sell  was  very 
good-natured ;  he  poured  them  into  my  lap,  and  said  I  had 
such  an  honest  face,  he  would  trust  me ;  and  that,  as  he 
was  in  a  great  hurry,  he  could  not  wait  an  hour  while  I 
sold  my  wood  ;  but  that  he  was  sure  I  would  pay  him  in  the 
evening,  and  he  told  me  that  he  would  call  here  this  even- 
ing for  the  money ;  but  now  what  shall  I  do,  Carlo  ?  I  shall 
have  no  money  to  give  him ;  I  must  give  him  back  his 
shells,  and  that 's  a  great  pity."  —  "  But  how  happened  it 
that  you  did  not  sell  your  wood  ?"  —  "  Oh,  I  forgot ;  did  not 
I  tell  you  that  ?  When  I  went  back  for  my  basket,  do  you 
know  it  was  empty,  quite  empty  —  not  a  chip  left.  Some 
dishonest  person  had  carried  it  all  off.  Had  not  I  reason 
to  cry  now,  Carlo  Y*  —  "  I  '11  go  this  minute  into  the  wood- 
market,  and  see  if  I  can  find  your  fagot ;  won't  that  be  bet- 
ter than  crying?"  said  her  brother.  "Should  you  know 
any  of  your  pieces  of  wood  again,  if  you  were  to  see  them  ?" 

—  "Yes;  one  of  them  I  am  sure  I  should  know  again," 
said  Rosetta ;  "  it  had  a  notch  at  one  end  of  it,  where  one 
of  the  carpenters  cut  it  off  from  another  piece  of  wood  for 
me."  —  "  And  is  the  piece  of  wood  from  which  the  carpen- 
ter cut  it  still  to  be  seen  Y*  said  Francisco.  "  Yes,  it  is  in 
the  yard  ;  but  I  cannot  bring  it  to  you,  for  it  is  very  heavy." 

—  "  We  can  go  to  it,"  said  Francisco ;  "  and  I  hope  we  shall 
recover  your  basketful."  He  and  Carlo  went  with  Rosetta 
immediately  to  the  yard  near  the  arsenal,  saw  the  notched 
piece  of  wood,  and  then  proceeded  to  the  little  wood-market, 
and  searched  every  heap  that  lay  before  the  little  factors, 
but  no  notched  bit  was  to  be  found,  and  Rosetta  declared 
that  she  did  not  see  one  stisk  that  looked  at  all  like  any  of 
hers.  On  their  part,  her  companions  eagerly  untied  their 
fagots  to  show  them  to  her  and  exclaimed,  "  that  they  were 


230  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

incapable  of  taking  what  did  not  belong  to  them ;  that  of 
all  persons  they  should  never  have  thought  of  taking  any- 
thing from  the  good-natured  little  Rosetta,  who  was  always 
ready  to  give  to  others,  and  to  help  them  in  making  up  their 
loads  " 

Despairing  of  discovering  the  thief,  Francisco  and  Carlo 
left  the  market.  As  they  were  returning  home,  they  were 
met  by  the  English  servant  Arthur,  who  asked  Francisco 
where  he  had  been,  and  where  he  was  going.  As  soon  as 
he  heard  of  Rosetta's  lost  fagot,  and  of  the  bit  of  wood 
notched  at  one  end,  of  which  Rosetta  drew  the  shape  with 
u  bit  of  chalk  that  her  brother  lent  her,  Arthur  exclaimed, 
''••  I  have  seen  such  a  bit  of  wood  as  this  within  this  quarter 
of  an  hour,  but  I  cannot  recollect  where.  Stay  !  it  was  at 
the  baker's,  I  think,  where  I  went  for  some  rolls  for  my 
master.  It  was  lying  beside  his  oven."  To  the  baker's  they 
all  went  as  fast  as  possible,  and  they  got  there  but  just  in 
time  ;  the  baker  had  in  his  hand  the  bit  of  wood,  with  which 
he  was  that  instant  going  to  feed  his  oven.  "  Stop,  good 
Mr.  Baker !"  cried  Rosetta,  who  ran  into  the  baker's  shop 
first ;  and  as  he  heard  "  Stop !  stop !"  re-echoed  by  many 
voices,  the  baker  stopped,  and  turning  to  Francisco,  Carlo, 
and  Arthur,  begged,  with  a  countenance  of  some  surprise, 
to  know  wny  they  desired  him  to  stop.  The  case,  was  easily 
explained,  and  the  baker  told  them  that  he  did  not  buy  any 
wood  in  the  little  market  that  morning;  that  this  fagot  he 
had  purchased,  between  the  hours  of  twelve  and  thirteen,* 
from  a  lad  of  about  Francisco's  height,  whom  he  met  near 
the  yard  oi  the  arsenal.  "  This  is  my  bit  of  wood,  I  am 
sure  ;  1  know  it  by  this  notch,"  said  Rosetta.  "  Well,"  said 
the  baker,  "  if  you  will  stay  here  .a  few  minutes,  you  will 
probably  see  the  lad  who  sold  it  to  me :  he  desired  to  be 
paid  in  bread,  and  my  bread  M'as  not  quite  baked  when  he 

*  The  Italians  begin  their  day  at  sunset,  and  reckon  the  hours  in 
an  cn\i<tttn«pte<l  series  from  one  to  twenty-four. 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.         231 

was  here ;  I  bid  him  call  again  in  an  hour,  and  I  fancy  he 
will  be  pretty  punctual,  for  he  looked  desperately  hungry." 
The  baker  had  scarcely  finished  speaking,  when  Francisco, 
who  was  standing  watching  at  the  door,  exclaimed,  "  Here 
comes  Piedro !  I  hope  he  is  not  the  boy  who  sold  you  the 
wood,  Mr.  Baker?"  —  "He  is  the  boy,  though,"  replied  the 
baker,  as  Piedro,  who  now  entered  the  shop,  started  at  the 
sight  of  Carlo  and  Francisco,  whom  he  had  never  seen  since 
the  day  of  his  disgrace  in  the  fruit-market. 

"  Your  servant,  Signor  Piedro,"  said  Carlo  ;  "  I  have  the 
honour  to  tell  you  that  this  piece  of  wood,  and  all  that  you 
took  out  of  the  basket  which  you  found  in  the  yard  of  the 
arsenal,  belongs  to  my  sister."  —  "  Yes,  indeed,"  cried  Ro* 
setta.  Piedro,  being  very  certain  that  nobody  saw  him 
when  he  emptied  Rosetta's  basket,  and  imagining  that  he 
was  suspected  only  upon  the  bare  assertion  of  a  child  like 
Rosetta,  who  might  be  baffled  and  frightened  out  of  her 
story,  boldly  denied  the  charge,  and  defied  any  one  to  prove 
him  guilty. 

"  He  has  a  right  to  be  heard  in  his  own  defence,"  said 
Arthur,  with  the  cool  justice  of  an  Englishman;  and  he 
stopped  the  angry  Carlo's  arm,  who  was  going  up  to  the  cul- 
prit with  all  the  Italian  vehemence  of  oratory  and  gesture. 
Arthur  went  on  to  say  something  in  bad  Italian  about  the 
excellence  of  an  English  trial  by  jury,  which  Carlo  was  too 
much  enraged  to  hear,  but  to  which  Francisco  paid  atten- 
tion, and  turning  to  Piedro,  he  asked  him  if  he  was  willing 
to  be  judged  by  twelve  of  his  equals  ?  "  With  all  my  heart," 
said  Piedro,  still  maintaining  an  unmoved  countenance  ;  and 
they  returned  immediately  to  the  little  wood-market. 

In  their  way  they  had  passed  through  the  fruit-market, 
and  crowds  of  those  who  were  well-acquainted  with  Piedro's 
former  transactions  followed  to  hear  the  event  of  the  pre- 
sent trial.  Arthur  could  not,  especially  as  he  spoke 
wretched  Italian,  make  the  eager  little  merchants  under- 
stand the  nature  and  advantages  of  an  English  trial  fcy  jury. 


232  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

They  preferred  their  own  summary  mode  of  proceeding. 
Francisco,  in  whose  integrity  all  had  perfect  confidence,  wag 
chosen  with  unanimous  shouts  for  the  judge,  but  he  declined 
the  office,  and  another  was  appointed.  He  was  raised  upon 
a  bench,  and  the  guilty  but  insolent-looking  Piedro,  and  the 
ingenuous  modest  P^osetta,  stood  before  him.  She  made  her 
complaint  in  a  very  artless  manner,  and  Piedro,  with  inge- 
nuity which  in  a  better  cause  would  have  deserved  admira- 
tion, spoke  volubly  and  craftily  in  his  own  defence  ;  but  all 
that  he  could  say  could  not  alter  the  facts.  The  judge  com- 
pared the  notched  bit  of  wood  found  at  the  baker's  with  the 
piece  from  which  it  was  cut,  which  he  went  to  see  in  the 
yard  of  the  arsenal.  It  was  found  to  fit  exactly.  The  judge 
then  found  it  impossible  to  restrain  the  loud  indignation  of 
all  the  spectators.  The  prisoner  was  sentenced  never  more 
to  sell  wood  in  that  market ;  and  the  moment  sentence  was 
pronounced,  Piedro  was  hissed  and  hooted  out  of  the  mar- 
ket-place. Thus  a  third  time  he  deprived  himself  of  the 
means  of  earning  his  bread. 

We  shall  not  dwell  upon  all  his  petty  methods  of  cheat- 
ing in  the  trades  he  next  attempted.  He  handed  lemonade 
about  in  a  part  of  Naples  where  he  was  not  known ;  but  he 
lost  his  customers  by  putting  too  much  water  and  too  little 
lemon  into  his  beverage.  He  then  took  to  the  waters  from 
the  sulphurous  springs,  and  served  them  about  to  foreign- 
ers;  but  one  day,  as  he  was  trying  to  jostle  a  competitor 
from  a  coach-door,  he  slipped  his  foot,  and  broke  his  glasses. 
They  had  been  borrowed  from  an  old  woman,  who  hired  out 
glasses  to  the  boys  who  sold  lemonade.  Piedro  knew  that 
it  was  the  custom  to  pay  of  course  for  all  that  were  broken  ; 
but  this  he  was  not  inclined  to  do  —  he  had  a  few  shillings 
in  his  pocket,  and  thought  that  it  would  be  very  clever  to 
defraud  this  poor  woman  of  her  right,  and  to  spend  his 
shillings  upon  what  he  valued  more  than  he  did  his  good 
name  —  maccaroni.  The  shillings  were  soon  gone.  And 
we  shall  for  the  present  leave  Piedro  to  his  follies  and  his 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  233 

fate,  or,  to  speak  more  properly,  to  his  follies  and  their  ine- 
vitable consequences. 

Francisco  was  all  this  time  acquiring  knowledge  from  his 
new  friends,  without  neglecting  his  own  or  his  father's  busi- 
ness. He  contrived,  during  the  course  of  the  autumn  and 
winter,  to  make  himself  a  tolerable  arithmetician.  Carlo's 
father  could  draw  plans  in  architecture  neatly,  and,  pleased 
with  the  eagerness  Francisco  showed  to  receive  instruction, 
he  willingly  put  a  pencil  and  compass  into  his  hand  and 
taught  him  all  he  knew  himself.  Francisco  had  great  per- 
severance, and,  by  repeated  trials,  he  at  length  succeeded 
in  copying  exactly  all  the  plans  which  his  master  lent  him. 
His  copies,  in  time,  surpassed  the  originals,  and  Carlo 
exclaimed,  with  astonishment,  "  Why,  Francisco,  what  an 
astonishing  genius  you  have  for  drawing !  Absolutely,  you 
draw  plans  better  than  father  I"  — "  As  to  genius,"  said 
Francisco,  honestly,  "  I  have  none.  All  that  I  have  done 
has  been  done  by  hard  labour ;  I  do  n't  know  how  other 
people  do  things,  but  I  am  sure  that  I  never  have  been  able 
to  get  anything  well  done  but  by  patience ;  do  n't  you 
remember,  Carlo,  how  you,  and  even  Rosetta,  laughed  at 
me  the  first  time  your  father  put  a  pencil  into  my  awkward, 
clumsy  hands."  —  "Because,"  said  Carlo,  laughing  again 
at  the  recollection,  "  you  held  your  pencil  so  drolly ;  and 
when  you  were  to  cut  it,  you  cut  it  just  as  if  you  were  using 
a  pruning-knife  to  your  vines ;  but  now  it  is  your  turn 
to  laugh,  for  you  surpass  us  all.  And  the  times  are  changed 
since  I  set  about  to  explain  this  rule  of  mine  to  you."  — 
"  Ay,  that  rule,"  said  Francisco,  "how  much  I  owe  to  it! 
Some  great  people,  when  they  lose  any  of  their  fine  things, 
eause  the  crier  to  promise  a  reward  of  so  much  money  to 
whoever  shall  find  and  restore  their  trinket:  how  richly 
have  you  and  your  father  rewarded  me  for  returning  this 
rule !" 

Francisco's  modesty  and  gratitude,  as  they  were  perfectly 
sincere,  attached  his  friends  to  him  most  powerfully ;  but 


284         THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

there  was  one  person  who  regretted  our  hero's  frequent 
absences  from  his  vineyard  at  Resina.  Not  Francisco's 
father,  for  he  was  well  satisfied  his  son  never  neglected  his 
business ;  and  as  to  the  hours  spent  in  Naples,  he  had  so 
much  confidence  in  Francisco  that  he  felt  no  apprehension 
of  his  getting  into  bad  company.  "When  his  son  had  once 
said  to  him,  "  I  spent  my  time  at  such  a  place,  and  in  such 
a  manner,"  he  was  as  well  convinced  of  its  being  so  as  if 
he  had  watched  and  seen  him  every  moment  of  the  day. 
But  it  was  Arthur  who  complained  of  Francisco's  absence. 
"  I  see,  because  I  am  an  Englishman,"  said  he,  "you  do  n't 
value  my  friendship,  and  yet  that  is  the  very  reason  you 
ought  to  value  it  —  no  friends  so  good  as  the  English  —  be 
it  spoken  without  offence  to  your  Italian  friend,  for  whom 
you  now  continually  leave  me  to  dodge  up  and  down  here 
in  Resina,  without  a  soul  that  I  like  to  speak  to,  for  you  are 
the  only  Italian  I  ever  liked."  —  "  You  shall  like  another,  I 
promise  you,"  said  Francisco ;  "you  must  come  with  me  to 
Carlo's,  and  see  how  I  spend  my  evenings ;  then  complain 
of  me  if  you  can."  It  was  the  utmost  stretch  of  Arthur's 
complaisance  to  pay  this  visit ;  but  in  spite  of  his  national 
prejudices  and  habitual  reserve  of  temper,  he  was  pleased 
with  the  reception  he  met  with  from  the  generous  Carlo  and 
the  playful  Rosetta.  They  showed  him  Francisco's  draw- 
ings with  enthusiastic  eagerness ;  and  Arthur,  though  no 
great  judge  of  drawing,  was  in  astonishment,  and  frequently 
repeated,  "  I  know  a  gentleman  who  visits  my  master,  who 
would  like  these  things  —  I  wish  I  might  have  them  to  show 
him."  —  "  Take  them,  then,"  said  Carlo  ;  "  I  wish  all  Na- 
ples could  see  them,  provided  they  might  be  liked  half  as 
well  as  I  like  them." 

Arthur  carried  off  the  drawings ;  and  one  day  when  his 
master  was  better  than  usual,  and  when  he  was  at  leisure, 
eating  a  desert  of  Francisco's  grapes,  he  entered  respect- 
fully, with  his  little  portfolio  under  his  arm,  and  begged 
permission  to  show  his  master  a  few  drawings,  done  by  the 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.         235 

gardener's  sod  whose  grapes  he  was  eating.  Though  not 
quite  so  partial  a  judge  as  the  enthusiastic  Carlo,  this  gen- 
tleman was  both  pleased  and  surprised  at  the  sight  of  these 
drawings,  considering  how  short  a  time  Francisco  had 
applied  himself  to  this  art,  and  what  slight  instructions  he 
had  received.  Arthur  was  desired  to  summon  the  young 
artist,  Francisco's  honest,  open  manner,  joined  to  the 
proofs  he  had  given  of  his  abilities,  and  the  character  Ar- 
thur gave  him  for  strict  honesty  and  constant  kindness  to 
his  parents,  interested  Mr.  L**,  this  English  gentleman, 
much  in  his  favour.  Mr.  L**  was  at  this  time  in  treaty 
with  an  Italian  painter,  whom  he  wished  to  engage  to  copy 
for  him,  exactly,  some  of  the  cornices,  mouldings,  tablets, 
and  antique  ornaments  which  are  to  be  seen  among  the 
ruins  of  the  ancient  city  of  Herculaneum.* 

*  We  must  give  those  of  our  young  English  readers  who  may  not 
be  acquainted  with  the  ancient  city  of  Herculaneum,  some  idea  of  it. 
None  can  be  ignorant,  tbat  near  Naples  is  the  celebrated  volcanic 
mountain  of  Vesuvius;  that  from  time  to  time  there  happen  violent 
eruptions  from  this  mountain,  that  is  to  say,  flames  and  immense 
clouds  of  smoke  issue  from  different  openings,  mouths,  or  craters, 
as  they  are  called,  but  more  especially  from  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain, which  is  distinguished  by  the  name  of  the  crater.  A  rumbling, 
and  afterward  a  roaring,  noise  is  heard  within,  and  prodigious  quan- 
tities of  stones  and  minerals  burnt  into  masses  (scoriae)  are  thrown 
out  of  the  crater,  sometimes  to  a  great  distance.  The  hot  ashes 
from  Mount  Vesuvius  have  often  been  seen  upon  the  roofs  of  the 
houses  of  Naples,  from  which  it  is  six  miles  distant.  Streams  of 
lava  run  down  the  sides  of  the  mountain  during  the  time  of  an  erup. 
tion,  destroying  everything  in  their  way,  and  overwhelm  the  house? 
and  vineyards  which  are  in  the  neighbourhood.  About  1750  years 
ago,  during  the  reign  of  the  Roman  emperor  Titus,  there  happened 
a  terrible  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius ;  and  a  large  city  called  Her- 
culaneum, which  was  situated  at  about  four  miles'  distance  from  the 
volcano,  was  overwhelmed  by  the  streams  of  lava  which  poured 
into  it,  filled  up  the  streets,  and  quickly  covered  over  the  tops  of  the 
houses,  so  that  the  whole  was  no   more  visible.     It  remained  fo7 


236         THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS, 


CHAPTER  III. 

Tutte  le  gran  facende  si  f anno  di  poca  cosa. 
Great  things  hang  upon  small  wires. 

Signor  Camillo,  the  artist  employed  by  Mr.  L**  to 
copy  some  of  the  antique  ornaments  in  Herculaneum,  was 
a  liberal-minded  man,  perfectly  free  from  that  mean  jeal- 
ousy which  would   repress   the   efforts   of  rising   genius. 


many  years  buried.  The  lava  which  covered  it  became  in  time  fit 
for  vegetation,  plants  grew  there,  a  new  soil  was  formed,  and  a  new 
town  called  Portici  was  built  over  the  place  where  Herculaneum 
formerly  stood.  The  little  village-of  Resina  is  also  situated  near  the 
spot.  About  fifty  years  ago,  in  a  poor  man's  garden  at  Resina,  a 
hole  in  a  well  about  thirty  feet  below  the  surface  of  the  earth  was 
observed;  some  persons  had  the  curiosity  to  enter  into  this  hole, 
and,  after  creeping  under-ground  for  some  time,  they  came  to  the 
foundations  of  houses.  The  peasants,  inhabitants  of  the  village, 
who  had  probably  never  heard  of  Herculaneum,  were  somewhat 
surprised  at  their  discovery.*  About  the  same  time,  in  a  pit  in  the 
town  of  Portici,  a  similar  passage  under-ground  was  discovered,  and, 
by  orders  of  the  King  of  Naples,  workmen  were  employed  to  dig 
%way  the  earth,  and  clear  the  passages.  They  found  at  length  the 
entrance  into  the  town,  which,  during  the  reign  of  Titus,  was  buried 
under  lava.  It  was  about  eighty-eight  Neapolitan  palms  (a  palm 
contains  near  nint  inches)  below  the  top  of  the  pit.  The  workmen, 
as  they  cleared  the  passages,  marked  their  way  with  chalk  when 
they  came  to  any  turning,  lest  they  should  lose  themselves.  The 
streets  branched  out  in  many  directions,  and  lying  across  them  the 
workmen  often  found  large  pieces  of  timber,  beams,  and  rafters; 
some  broken  in  the  fall,  others  entire.  These  beams  and  rafters  are 
burned  quite  black,  and  look  like  charcoal,  except  those  that  were 
found  in  moist  places,  which  have  more  the  colour  of  rotten  wood, 
find  which  are  like  a  soft  paste,  into  which  you   might  run  your 

*  Philosophical  Transactions,  vol.  ix.  p.  440. 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  237 

u  Here  is  a  lad  scarcely  fifteen,  a  poor  gardener's  son,  who, 
with  merely  the  instructions  he  could  obtain  from  a  com- 
mon carpenter,  has  learned  to  draw  these  plans  and  eleva- 
tions, which,  you  see,  are  tolerably  neat.  What  an  advan- 
tage your  instructions  would  be  to  him  V  said  Mr.  L**,  as 
he  introduced  Francisco  to  Signor  Camillo.  "  I  am  inte- 
rested for  this  lad,  from  what  I  have  learned  of  his  good 
conduct :  I  hear  he  is  strictly  honest,  and  one  of  the  best 
of  sons  ;  let  us  do  something  for  him  :  if  you  will  give  him 
some  knowledge  of  your  art,  I  will,  as  far  as  money  can 
recompense  you  for  your  loss  of  time,  pay  whatever  you 
may  think  reasonable  for  his  instruction."  Signor  Camillo 
made  no  difficulties ;  he  was  pleased  with  his  pupil's  appear- 
ance, and  every  day  he  liked  him  better  and  better.  In  the 
room  where  they  worked  together  there  were  some  large 
books  of  drawings  and  plates,  which  Francisco  saw  now  and 
then  opened  by  his  master,  and  which  he  had  a  great  desire 
to  look  over ;  but  when  he  was  left  in  the  room  by  himself, 
he  never  touched  them,  because  he  had  not  permission. 
Signor  Camillo,  the  first  day  he  came  into  this  room  with 
his  pupil,  said  to  him,  "  Here  are  many  valuable  books  and 
drawings,  young  man ;  I  trust,  from  the  character  I  have 
heard  of  you,  that  they  will  be  perfectly  safe  here." 

Some  weeks  after  Francisco  had  been  with  the  painter, 
they  had  occasion  to  look  for  the  front  of  a  temple  in  one 
of  these  large  books.     "What!  don't  you  know  in  which 

hand.  The  walls  of  the  houses  slant,  some  one  way,  some  another, 
and  some  are  upright.  Several  magnificent  buildings  of  brick,  faced 
with  marble  of  different  colours,  are  partly  seen,  where  the  workmen 
have  cleared  away  the  earth  and  lava  with  which  they  were  incrusted. 
Columns  of  red  and  white  marble,  and  flights  of  marble  steps,  are 
seen  in  different  places.  And  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  palaces  some 
very  fine  statues  and  pictures  have  been  dug.  Foreigners  who  visit 
Naples  are  extremely  curious  to  see  this  subterraneous  city,  and  are 
desirous  to  carry  with  them  into  their  own  country  some  proofs  of 
their  having  examined  this  wonderful  place. 


238  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

book  to  look  for  it,  Francisco  1"  cried  his  master,  with  some 
impatience.  "  Is  it  possible  that  you  have  been  here  so  long 
with  these  books,  and  that  you  cannot  find  the  print  I  mean  ? 
Had  you  half  the  taste  I  gave  you  credit  for,  you  would  have 
singled  it  out  from  all  the  rest,  and  have  it  fixed  in  your 
memory."  —  "But,  signor,  I  never  saw  it,"  said  Francisco, 
respectfully,  "or  perhaps  I  should  have  preferred  it."  — 
"  That  you  never  saw  it,  young  man,  is  the  very  thing  of 
which  I  complain.  Is  a  taste  for  the  arts  to  be  learned, 
think  you,  by  looking  at  the  cover  of  a  book  like  this?  Is 
J.t  possible  that  you  never  thought  of  opening  it  ?"  —  "  Often 
and  often,"  cried  Francisco,  "have  I  longed  to  open  it,  but 
I  thought  it  was  forbidden  me  ;  and,  however  great  my  curi- 
osity in  your  absence,  I  have  never  touched  them.  I  hoped, 
indeed,  that  the  time  would  come  when  you  would  have  the 
goodness  to  show  them  to  me."  —  "  And  so  it  is  come,  excel- 
lent young  man  \"  cried  Camillo ;  "  much  as  I  love  taste, 
I  love  integrity  more :  I  am  now  sure  of  your  having  the 
one,  and  let  me  see  whether  you  have,  as  I  believe  you  have, 
the  other.  Sit  you  down  here  beside  me,  and  we  will  iook 
over  these  books  together." 

The  attention  with  which  his  young  pupil  examined 
everything,  and  the  pleasure  he  unaffectedly  expressed  in 
seeing  these  excellent  prints,  sufficiently  convinced  his  judi- 
cious master  that  it  was  not  from  the  want  of  curiosity  or 
taste  that  he  had  never  opened  these  tempting  volumes. 
His  confidence  in  Francisco  was  much  increased  by  this  cir- 
cumstance, slight  as  it  may  appear.  One  day  Signor  Ca- 
millo came  behind  Francisco,  and  tapping  him  upon  the 
shoulder,  he  said  to  him,  "  Put  up  your  pencils,  and  follow 
me:  lean  depend  upon  your  integrity  —  I  have  pledged 
myself  for  it.  Bring  your  note-book  with  you,  and  follow 
me  ;  I  will  this  day  show  you  something  that  will  entertain 
you  at  least  as  much  as  my  large  book  of  prints.  Follow 
me." 

Francisco  followed,  till  they  came  to  the  pit  near  the 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.          239 

entrance  of  Herculaneum.  "  I  have  obtained  leave  for  you 
to  accompany  me,"  said  his  master ;  "  and  you  know,  I  sup- 
pose, that  this  is  not  a  permission  granted  to  every  one." 
Paintings  of  great  value,  besides  ornaments  of  gold  and 
silver,  antique  bracelets,  rings,  &c,  are  from  time  to  time 
found  among  these  ruins,  and  therefore  it  is  necessary  that 
no  person  should  be  admitted  whose  honesty  cannot  be 
depended  upon.  Even  Francisco's  talents  could  not  have 
advanced  him  in  the  world,  we  may  remark,  unless  they 
had  been  united  to  integrity.  He  was  much  delighted  and 
astonished  by  the  new  scene  that  was  now  opened  to  his 
view ;  and  as  he  day  after  day  accompanied  his  master  to 
this  subterraneous  city,  he  had  leisure  for  observation.  He 
was  employed,  as  soon  as  he  had  gratified  his  curiosity,  in 
drawing.  There  are  niches  in  the  walls  in  several  places, 
from  which  pictures  have  been  dug,  and  these  niches  are 
often  adorned  with  elegant  masks,  figures,  and  animals, 
which  have  been  left  by  the  ignorant  or  careless  workmen, 
and  which  are  going  fast  to  destruction.  Signor  Camillo, 
who  was  copying  these  for  his  English  employer,  had  a  mind 
to  try  his  pupil's  skill ;  and  pointing  to  a  niche  bordered 
with  grotesque  figures,  he  desired  him  to  try  if  he  could 
make  any  hand  of  it.  Francisco  made  several  trials,  and 
at  last  finished  such  an  excellent  copy,  that  his  enthusiastic 
and  generous  master,  with  warm  encomiums,  carried  it 
immediately  to  his  patron;  and  he  had  the  pleasure  to 
receive  from  Mr.  L**  a  purse  containing  five  guineas,  as  a 
reward  and  encouragement  for  his  pupil.  Francisco  had 
no  sooner  received  this  money  than  he  hurried  home  to  his 
father  and  mother's  cottage.  His  mother,  some  months 
before  this  time,  had  taken  a  small  dairy-farm,  and  her  son 
had  once  heard  her  express  a  wish  that  she  was  but  rich 
enough  to  purchase  a  remarkably  fine  brindled  cow,  which 
belonged  to  a  farmer  in  the  neighbourhood.  "  Here,  my 
dear  mother,"  cried  Francisco,  pouring  the  guineas  into  her 
lap,  "  and  here,"  continued  he,  emptying  a  bag,  which  cod 


240  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

tained  about  as  much  more,  in  small  Italian  coins,  the  pro- 
fits of  trade,  money  he  had  fairly  earned  during  the  two 
rears  he  had  sold  fruit  among  the  little  Neapolitan  mer- 
chants ;  "  this  is  all  yours,  dearest  mother,  and  I  hope  it 
will  be  enough  to  pay  for  the  brindled  cow.  Nay,  you  must 
not  refuse  me  —  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  that  cow's  being 
milked  by  you  this  very  evening ;  and  I  '11  produce  my  best 
bunches  of  grapes,  and  my  father,  perhaps,  will  give  us  a 
melon,  —  for  I  've  had  no  time  for  melons  this  season,  —  and 
I  '11  step  to  Naples,  and  invite  —  may  I,  mother  ?  —  my  good 
friends,  dear  Carlo,  and  your  favourite  little  Rosetta,  anc 
my  old  drawing-master,  and  my  friend  Arthur,  and  we  '11 
sup  with  you  at  your  dairy." 

The  happy  mother  thanked  her  son,  and  the  father  assured 
him  that  neither  melon  nor  pineapple  should  be  spared  to 
make  a  supper  worthy  of  his  friends.  The  brindled  cow 
was  bought,  and  Arthur,  and  Carlo,  and  Rosetta  most  joy- 
fully accepted  their  invitation.  The  carpenter  had  unluckily 
appointed  to  settle  a  long  account  that  day  with  one  of  his 
employers,  and  he  could  not  accompany  his  children.  It 
was  a  delicious  evening :  they  left  Naples  just  as  the  sea- 
breeze,  after  the  heat  of  the  day,  was  most  refreshingly  felt. 
The  walk  to  Resina,  the  vineyard,  the  dairy,  and,  most  of 
all,  the  brindled  cow,  were  praised  by  Carlo  and  Rosetta, 
with  all  the  Italian  superlatives  which  signify,  "  Most  beau- 
.iful !  most  delightful !  most  charming !"  while  the  English 
Arthur,  with  as  warm  a  heart,  was  more  temperate  in  his 
praise,  declaring  "  that  this  was  the  most  like  an  English 
summer's  evening  of  any  he  had  ever  felt  since  he  came  to 
Italy ;  and  that,  moreover,  the  cream  was  almost  as  good 
as  what  he  had  been  used  to  drink  in  Cheshire."  The  com- 
pany, who  were  all  pleased  with  each  other,  and  with  the ' 
gardener's  good  fruit,  which  he  produced  in  great  abun- 
dance, did  not  think  of  separating  till  late.  It  was  a  bright 
moonlight  night,  and  Carlo  asked  his  friend  if  he  would 
walk  with  them  part  of  the  way  to  Naples.     "  Yes,  all  the 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.          241 

way,  most  willingly,"  cried  Francisco,  "  that  I  may  have 
the  pleasure  of  giving  to  your  father,  with  my  own  hands, 
this  fine  bunch  of  grapes,  that  I  have  reserved  for  him  out 
of  my  own  share."  —  "  Add  this  fine  pineapple  for  my  share, 
then,"  said  his  father ;  "  and  a  pleasant  walk  to  you,  my 
young  friends." 

They  proceeded  gayly  along,  and  when  they  reached  Na- 
ples, as  they  passed  through  the  square  where  the  little 
merchants  held  their  market,  Francisco  pointed  to  the  spot 
where  he  found  Carlo's  rule ;  he  never  missed  an  opportu- 
nity of  showing  his  friends  that  he  did  not  forget  their  for- 
mer kindness  to  him.  "  That  rule,"  said  he,  "  has  been  the 
cause  of  all  my  present  happiness  ;  and  I  thank  you  for — " 
"  Oh,  never  mind  thanking  him  now,"  interrupted  Rosetta ; 
"  but  look  yonder,  and  tell  me  what  all  those  people  are 
about."  She  pointed  to  a  group  of  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, who  were  assembled  under  a  piazza,  listening,  in  vari- 
ous attitudes  of  attention,  to  a  man  who  was  standing  upon 
a  flight  of  steps,  speaking  in  a  loud  voice,  and  with  much 
action,  to  the  people  who  surrounded  him.  Francisco,  Carlo, 
and  Rosetta  joined  his  audience.  The  moon  shone  full  upon 
his  countenance,  which  was  very  expressive,  and  which 
varied  frequently,  according  to  the  characters  of  the  persons 
whose  history  he  was  telling,  and  according  to  all  the 
ehanges  of  their  fortune.  This  man  was  one  of  those  who 
are  called  improvisatori ;  persons  who,  in  Italian  towns,  go 
about  reciting  verses  or  telling  stories,  which  they  are  sup- 
posed to  invent  as  they  go  on  speaking.  Some  of  these 
people  speak  with  great  oratory,  and  collect  crowds  around 
them  in  the  public  streets.  When  he  sees  the  attention  of 
his  audience  fixed,  and  when  he  comes  to  some  very  inte- 
resting part  of  his  narrative,  the  dexterous  improvisatore 
drops  his  hat  upon  the  ground,  and  pauses  till  his  auditors 
have  paid  their  tribute  to  his  eloquence.  When  he  thinks 
the  hat  sufficiently  full,  he  takes  it  up  again,  and  proceeds 
with  his  story.  The  hat  was  dropped  just  as  Francisco  at  * 
16 


242  THE     LITTLE    MERCHANTS. 

his  two  friends  came  under  the  piazza ;  the  orator  had  fin- 
ished one  story,  and  was  going  to  commence  another.  He 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  Francisco,  then  glanced  at  Carlo  and 
Rosetta,  and  after  a  moment's  consideration,  he  began  a 
6tory  which  bore  some  resemblance  to  one  that  our  young 
English  readers  may  perhaps  know  by  the  name  of  "  Cor- 
/iaro,  or  the  grateful  Turk/7  Francisco  was  deeply  inte- 
rested in  this  narrative,  and  when  the  hat  dropped,  he 
eagerly  threw  in  his  contribution.  At  the  end  of  his  story, 
when  the  speaker's  voice  stopped,  there  was  a  momentary 
silence,  which  was  broken  by  the  orator  himself,  who 
exclaimed,  as  he  took  up  the  hat  which  lay  at  his  feet,  "  My 
friends,  here  is  some  mistake!  this  is  not  my  hat;  it  has 
been  changed  while  I  was  taken  up  with  my  story.  Pray, 
gentlemen,  find  my  hat  among  you :  it  was  a  remarkably 
good  one, — a  present  from  a  nobleman  for  an  epigram  I 
made.  I  would  not  lose  my  hat  for  twice  its  value.  Pray, 
gentlemen,  it  has  my  name  written  withinside  of  it,  Domi- 
nicho  Improvisatore.  Pray,  gentlemen,  examine  your  hats." 
Everybody  present  examined  their  hats,  and  showed  them 
to  Dominicho,  but  his  was  not  among  them.  No  one  had  left 
the  company;  the  piazza  was  cleared,  and  searched  in  vain. 
"  The  hat  has  vanished  by  magic,"  said  Dominicho.  "  Yes, 
and  by  the  same  magic  a  statue  moves  1"  cried  Carlo,  point- 
ing to  a  figure  standing  in  a  niche,  which  had  hitherta 
escaped  observation.  The  face  was  so  much  in  the  shade 
that  Carlo  did  not  at  first  perceive  that  the  statue  was  Pie- 
dro.  Piedro,  when  he  saw  himself  discovered,  burst  into 
a  loud  laugh,  and  throwing  down  Dominicho' s  hat,  which 
he  held  in  his  hand  behind  him,  cried,  "  A  pretty  set  of 
novices  !  Most  excellent  players  at  hide-and-seek  you  would 
make  I"  Whether  Piedro  really  meant  to  have  carried  off 
the  poor  man's  hat,  or  whether  he  was,  as  he  said,  merely 
in  jest,  we  leave  it  to  those  who  know  his  general  character 
to  decide.  Carlo  shook  his  head ;  "  Still  at  your  old  tricks, 
Piedro,"  said  he:  "remember  the  old  proverb,  'No  fox  so 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  243 

cunning  but  he  comes  to  the  furrier's  at  last/ ?'*  —  "I  defy 
the  furrier  and  you  too,"  replied  Piedro,  taking  up  his  own 
ragged  hat.  "  I  have  no  need  to  steal  hats  ;  I  can  afford  to 
buy  better  than  you  '11  have  upon  your  head.  Francisco,  a 
word  with  you,  if  you  have  done  crying  at  the  pitiful  story 
you  have  been  listening  to  so  attentively." 

"  And  what  would  you  say  to  me  ?"  said  Francisco,  fol- 
lowing him  a  few  steps :  "  do  not  detain  me  long,  because 
my  friends  will  wait  for  me."  —  "If  they  are  friends,  they 
can  wait,"  said  Piedro.  "  You  need  not  be  ashamed  of  being 
seen  in  my  company  now,  I  can  tell  you ;  for  I  am,  as  I 
always  told  you  I  should  be,  the  richest  man  of  the  two." 
—  "Rich!  you  rich!"  cried  Francisco;  "well,  then,  it  was 
impossible  you  could  mean  to  trick  that  poor  man  out  of  his 
good  hat."  —  "  Impossible  !"  said  Piedro.  Francisco  did 
not  consider,  that  those  who  have  habits  of  pilfering  conti- 
nue to  practise  them  often  when  the  poverty  which  first 
tempted  them  to  dishonesty  ceases.  "  Impossible  !  you  stare 
when  I  tell  you  I  'm  rich,  but  the  thing  is  so  ;  moreover,  I 
am  well  with  my  father  at  home.  I  have  friends  in  Naples, 
and  I  call  myself  Piedro  the  Lucky.  Look  you  here,"  said 
he,  producing  an  old  gold  coin  ;  "  this  does  nnt  smell  of  fish, 
does  it  ?  My  father  is  no  longer  a  fisherman,  nor  I  neither ; 
neither  do  I  sell  sugar-piums  to  children ;  nor  do  I  slave 
myself  in  a  vineyard,  like  some  folks ;  but  fortune,  when  I 
least  expected  it,  has  stood  my  friend.  I  have  many  pieces 
)f  gold  like  this.  Digging  in  my  father's  garden,  it  was  my 
luck  to  come  to  an  old  Roman  vessel  full  of  gold.  I  have 
this  day  agreed  for  a  house  in  Naples  for  my  father.  We 
shall  live,  while  we  can  afford  it,  like  great  folks,  you  will 
see  ;  and  I  shall  enjoy  the  envy  that  will  be  felt  by  some  of 
my  old  friends,  the  little  Neapolitan  merchants,  who  will 
change  their  note  when  they  see  my  change  of  fortune. 
What  say  you  to  all  this,  Francisco  the  Honest?"  —  "  Tha* 

*  Tutti  le  volpi  si  trovano  in  pellicera. 


244         THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

I  wish  you  joy  of  your  prosperity,  and  hope  you  may  enjoy 
it  long  and  well."  —  "  Well !  no  doubt  of  that ;  every  one 
who  has  it  enjoys  it  well.  '  He  always  dances  well  to  whom 
fortune  pipes.'"*  —  "Yes,  but  no  longer  pipe  no  longer 
dance,"  replied  Francisco,  and  here  they  parted  ;  for  Piedro 
walked  away  abruptly,  much  mortified  to  perceive  that  hia 
prosperity  did  not  excite  much  envy,  or  command  any  addi- 
tional respect  from  Francisco. 

"  I  would  rather,"  said  Francisco,  when  he  returned  to 
Carlo  and  Rosetta,  who  waited  for  him  under  the  portico 
where  he  left  them,  "  I  would  rather  have  such  good  friends 
as  you,  Carlo  and  Arthur,  and  some  more  I  could  name,  and 
besides  that,  have  a  clear  conscience,  and  work  honestly  for 
my  bread,  than  be  as  lucky  as  Piedro.  Do  you  know  he 
has  found  a  treasure,  he  says,  in  his  father's  garden,  a  vase 
full  of  gold?  he  showed  me  one  of  the  gold  pieces."  — 
"  Much  good  may  they  do  him ;  I  hope  he  came  honestly 
by  them,"  said  Carlo ;  "  but  ever  since  the  affair  of  the 
double  measure,  I  suspect  double  dealing  always  from  him. 
It  is  not  our  affair,  however ;  let  him  make  himself  happy 
his  way,  and  we  ours. 

'He  that  would  live  in  peace  and  rest 
Must  hear,  and  see,  and  say  the  best.'"  f 

All  Piedro's  neighbours  did  not  follow  this  peaceable 
maxim  ;  for  when  he  and  his  father  began  to  circulate  the 
story  of  the  treasure  found  in  the  garden,  the  village  of 
Resina  did  not  give  them  implicit  faith.  People  nodded, 
and  whispered,  and  shrugged  their  shoulders  ;  then  crossed 
themselves,  and  declared  that  they  would  not  for  all  the 
riches  in  Naples  change  places  with  either  Piedro  or  his 
father.  Regardless,  or  pretending  to  be  regardless,  of  these 
suspicions,  Piedro  and  his  father  persisted  in  their  asser- 

*  Assai  ben  balla  a  chi  fortuna  suona. 
f  Ode,  vede,  tace,  se  vuoi  viver  in  pace. 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  245 

tions.  The  fishing-nets  were  sold,  and  everything  in  their 
cottage  was  disposed  of;  they  left  Resina,  went  to  live  at 
Naples,  and,  after  a  few  weeks,  the  matter  began  to  be 
almost  forgotten  in  the  village.  The  old  gardener,  Fran- 
cisco's father,  was  one  of  those  who  endeavoured  to  think 
the  best;  and  all  that  he  said  upon  the  subject  was,  that  he 
would  not  exchange  Francisco  the  Honest  for  Piedro  the 
Lucky ;  that  one  can't  judge  of  the  day  till  one  sees  the 
evening  as  well  as  the  morning.* 

Not  to  leave  our  readers  longer  in  suspense,  we  must 
inform  them  that  the  peasants  of  Resina  were  right  in  their 
suspicions.  Piedro  had  never  found  any  treasure  in  his 
father's  garden,  but  he  came  by  his  gold  in  the  following 
manner.  After  he  was  banished  from  the  little  wood-mar- 
ket for  stealing  Rosetta's  basketful  of  wood ;  after  he  had 
cheated  the  poor  woman,  who  let  glasses  out  to  hire,  out  of 
the  value  of  the  glasses  which  he  broke  ;  and,  in  short,  after 
he  had  entirely  lost  his  credit  with  all  who  knew  him,  he 
roamed  about  the  streets  of  Naples,  reckless  of  what  became 
of  him.  He  found  the  truth  of  the  proverb,  that  "  Credit 
lost  is  like  a  Venice  glass  broken  —  it  can't  be  mended 
again."  The  few  shillings  which  he  had  in  his  pocket  sup- 
plied him  with  food  for  a  few  days ;  at  last  he  was  glad  to 
be  employed  by  one  of  the  peasants  who  came  to  Naples  to 
load  their  asses  with  manure  out  of  the  streets.  They  often 
follow,  very  early  in  the  morning  or  during  the  night-time, 
ihe  track  of  carriages  that  are  going  or  that  are  returning 
from  the  opera ;  and  Piedro  was  one  night  at  this  work, 
when  the  horses  of  a  nobleman's  carriage  took  fright  at  the 
sudden  blaze  of  some  fire-works.  The  carriage  was  over- 
turned near  him  ;  a  lady  was  taken  out  of  it,  and  was  hur- 
ried by  her  attendants  into  a  shop,  where  she  staid  till  her 
carriage  was  set  to  rights.     She  was  too  much  alarmed  foi 


*  La  vita  il  fine,  —  e'l  di  loda  la  sera. 

"  Compute  the  morn  and  evening  of  their  day."  —  Pope. 


246         THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

the  first  ten  minutes  after  her  accident  to  think  of  anything  ; 
but,  after  some  time,  she  perceived  that  she  had  lost  a  val 
uable  diamond  cross,  which  she  had  worn  that  night  at  the 
opera;  she  was  uncertain  where  she  had  dropped  it;  the 
shop,  the  carriage,  the  street,  were  searched  for  it  in  vain. 
Piedro  saw  it  fall  as  the  lady  was  lifted  out  of  the  carriage, 
seized  upon  it,  and  carried  it  off.  Ignorant  as  he  was  of  the 
full  value  of  what  he  had  stolen,  he  knew  not  how  to  satisfy 
himself  as  to  this  point,  without  trusting  some  one  with  the 
secret.  After  some  hesitation,  he  determined  to  apply  to  a 
Jew,  who,  as  it  was  whispered,  was  ready  to  buy  everything 
that  was  offered  to  him  for  sale,  without  making  any  trou- 
blesome inquiries.  It  was  late ;  he  waited  till  the  streets 
were  cleared,  and  then  knocked  softly  at  the  back-door  of  the 
Jew's  house.  The  person  who  opened  the  door  for  Piedro 
was  his  own  father.  Piedro  started  back,  but  his  father 
had  fast  hold  of  him.  "What  brings  you  here?"  said  the 
father,  in  a  low  voice ;  a  voice  which  expressed  fear  and 
rage  mixed.  "Only  to  ask  my  way  —  my  shortest  way," 
stammered  Piedro.  "  No  equivocations !  Tell  me  what 
brings  you  here  at  this  time  of  night  ?  I  will  know."  Piedro, 
wno  felt  himself  in  his  father's  grasp,  and  who  knew  that 
his  father  would  certainly  search  him,  to  find  out  what  he 
had  brought  to  sell,  thought  it  most  prudent  to  produce  the 
diamond  cross.  His  father  could  but  just  see  its  lustre  by 
the  light  of  a  dim  lamp,  which  hung  over  their  heads  in  the 
gloomy  passage  in  which  they  stood.  "  You  would  have 
been  duped  if  you  had  gone  to  sell  this  to  the  Jew ;  it  is 
well  it  has  fallen  into  my  hands.  How  came  you  by  it?" 
Piedro  answered  that  he  had  found  it  in  the  street.  "  Go 
your  ways  home,  then,"  said  his  father ;  "  it  is  safe  with 
me :  concern  yourself  no  more  about  it." 

Piedro  was  not  inclined  thus  to  relinquish  his  booty,  and 
he  now  thought  proper  to  vary  his  account  of  the  manner 
in  which  he  found  the  cross.  He  now  confessed  that  it  had 
dropped  from  the  dress  of  a  lady,  whose  carriage  was  over- 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.          247 

turned  as  she  was  coming  home  from  the  opera ;  and  he 
concluded  by  saying,  that  if  his  father  took  his  prize  from 
him  without  giving  him  his  share  of  the  profits,  he  would 
go  directly  to  the  shop  where  the  lady  stopped  while  her 
servants  were  raising  the  carriage,  and  that  he  would  give 
notice  of  his  having  found  the  cross.  Piedro's  father  saw 
that  his  smart  son,  though  scarcely  sixteen  years  of  age, 
was  a  match  for  him  in  villany.  He  promised  him  that  he 
should  have  half  of  whatever  the  Jew  would  give  for  the 
diamonds,  and  Piedro  insisted  upon  being  present  at  the 
transaction.  "We  do  not  wish  to  lay  open  to  our  young 
readers  scenes  of  iniquity ;  it  is  sufficient  to  say,  that  the 
Jew,  who  was  a  man  old  in  all  the  arts  of  villany,  contrived 
to  cheat  both  his  associates,  and  obtained  the  diamond  cross 
for  less  than  half  its  value.  The  matter  was  managed  so 
that  the  transaction  remained  undiscovered ;  the  lady  who 
lost  the  cross,  after  making  fruitless  inquiries,  gave  up  the 
search,  and  Piedro  and  his  father  rejoiced  in  the  success  of 
their  manoeuvres.  It  is  said  that  "  Ill-gotten  wealth  is 
quickly  spent,"*  and  so  it  proved  in  this  instance;  both 
father  and  son  lived  a  riotous  life  as  long  as  their  money 
lasted,  and  it  did  not  last  many  months.  What  his  bad 
education  began,  bad  company  finished  ;  and  Piedro's  mind 
was  completely  ruined  by  the  associates  with  whom  he 
became  connected  during  what  he  called  his  prosperity. 
When  his  money  was  at  an  end,  these  unprincipled  friends 
began  to  look  cold  upon  him,  and  at  last  plainly  told  him, 
"  If  you  mean  to  live  with  us,  you  must  live  as  we  do."  They 
lived  by  robbery.  Piedro,  though  familiarized  to  the  idea 
of  fraud,  was  shocked  at  the  thought  of  becoming  a  robber 
by  profession.  How  difficult  it  is  to  stop  in  the  career  of  vice  ! 
Whether  Piedro  had  power  to  stop,  or  whether  he  was 
hurried  on  by  his  associates,  we  shall,  for  the  present,  leave 
in  doubt. 


Vien  presto  consumato  l'ingiustainento  acquistftto. 


248  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"We  turn  with  pleasure  from  Piedro  the  Cunning  to  Fran- 
cisco the  Honest.  Francisco  continued  the  happy  and  use- 
ful course  of  his  life  ;  by  his  unremitting  perseverance  he 
improved  himself  rapidly  under  the  instructions  of  his 
master  and  friend,  Signor  Camillo  —  his  friend,  we  say,  for 
the  fair  and  open  character  of  Francisco  won,  or  rather 
earned,  the  friendship  of  this  benevolent  artist.  The  Eng- 
lish gentleman  seemtd  to  take  a  pride  in  our  hero's  success 
and  good  conduct ;  he  was  not  one  of  those  patrons  who 
think  that  they  have  done  enough  when  they  have  given  five 
guineas.  His  servant,  Arthur,  always  considered  every 
generous  action  of  his  master's  as  his  own,  and  was  parti- 
cularly pleased  whenever  this  generosity  was  directed 
towards  Francisco.  As  for  Carlo  and  the  little  Rosetta, 
they  were  the  companions  of  all  the  pleasant  walks  which 
Francisco  used  to  take  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  after  he 
had  been  shut  up  all  day  at  his  work.  And  the  old  carpen- 
ter, delighted  with  the  gratitude  of  his  pupil,  frequently 
repeated,  "  that  he  was  proud  to  have  given  the  first  instruc- 
tions to  such  a  genius,  and  that  he  had  always  prophesied 
Francisco  would  be  a  great  man."  —  "  And  a  good  man, 
papa,"  said  Rosetta;  "for  though  he  has  grown  so  great, 
and  though  he  goes  into  palaces  now,  to  say  nothing  of  that 
place  under-ground,  where  he  has  leave  to  go,  yet,  notwith- 
standing all  this,  he  never  forgets  my  brother  Carlo  and 
you."  —  "That's  the  way  to  have  good  friends,"  said  the 
carpenter;  "and  I  like  his  way  —  he  does  more  than  he 
says.     'Facts  are  masculine  and  words  are  feminine.'"* 

These  good  friends  seemed  to  make  Francisco  happier 
than  Piedro  could  be  made  by  his  stolen  diamonds. 

*  T  fatti  sono  maschii  le  parole  femine. 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  249 

One  morning  Francisco  was  sent  to  finish  a  sketch  of  the 
front  of  an  ancient  temple,  among  the  ruins  of  Hercula- 
neum  ;  he  had  just  reached  the  pit,  and  the  men  were  about 
to  let  him  down  with  cords  in  the  usual  manner,  when  his 
attention  was  caught  by  the  shrill  sound  of  a  scolding 
woman's  voice.  He  looked,  and  saw  at  some  paces  distant 
this  female  fury,  who  stood  guarding  the  windlass  of  a  well, 
tj  which,  with  threatening  gestures  and  most  voluble  men- 
aces, she  forbade  all  access.  The  peasants  —  men,  women, 
and  children,  who  had  come  with  their  pitchers  to  draw 
water  at  this  well  — were  held  at  bay  by  the  enraged  female ; 
not  one  dared  to  be  the  first  to  advance  ;  while  she  grasped 
with  one  hand  the  handle  of  the  windlass,  and  with  the 
other  tanned  muscular  arm  extended,  governed  the  popu- 
lace, bidding  them  remember  that  she  was  padrona,  or  the 
mistress  of  the  well.  They  retired  in  hopes  of  finding  a 
more  gentle  padrona  at  some  other  well  in  the  neighbour- 
hood ;  and  the  fury,  when  they  were  out  of  sight,  divided 
the  long  black  hair  which  hung  over  her  face,  and,  turning 
to  some  of  the  spectators,  appealed  to  them  in  a  sober  voice, 
and  asked  if  she  was  not  right  in  what  she  had  done.  "  I, 
that  am  padrona  of  the  well,"  said  she,  addressing  herself 
to  Francisco,  who,  with  great  attention,  was  contemplating 
her  with  the  eye  of  a  painter,  "  I,  that  am  padrona  of  the 
well,  must,  in  times  of  scarcity,  do  strict  justice,  and  pre- 
serve for  ourselves  alone  the  water  of  our  well ;  there  is 
scarcely  enough  even  for  ourselves.  I  have  been  obliged 
to  make  my  husband  lengthen  the  ropes  every  day  for  this 
week  past :  if  things  go  on  at  this  rate,  there  will  soon  be 
not  one  drop  of  water  left  in  my  well."  —  "  Nor  in  any  of 
the  wells  in  the  neighbourhood,"  added  one  of  the  work- 
men, who  was  standing  by ;  and  he  mentioned  several  in 
which  the  water  had  lately  suddenly  decreased ;  and  a  mil- 
ler affirmed  that  his  mill  had  stopped  for  want  of  water. 
Francisco  was  struck  by  these  remarks ;  they  brought  to 
his  recollection  similar  facts  which  he  had  often  heard  hi? 


250  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

father  mention  in  his  childhood,  as  having  been  observed 
previous  to  the  last  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius.*  He  had 
also  heard  from  his  father,  in  his  childhood,  that  it  is  bet- 
ter to  trust  to  prudence  than  to  fortune ;  and  therefore, 
though  the  peasants  and  workmen,  to  whom  he  mentioned 
his  fears,  laughed,  and  said,  "  That  as  the  burning  moun- 
tain had  been  favourable  to  them  for  so  many  years,  they 
would  trust  to  it  and  St.  Januarius  one  day  longer ;"  yet 
Francisco  immediately  gave  up  all  thoughts  of  spending 
this  day  amid  the  ruins  of  Herculaneum.  After  having 
inquired  sufficiently,  after  having  seen  several  wells  in 
which  the  water  had  evidently  decreased,  and  after  having 
seen  the  mill-wheels  that  were  standing  still  for  the  want 
of  their  usual  supply,  he  hastened  home  to  his  father  and 
mother,  reported  what  he  had  heard  and  seen,  and  begged 
of  them  to  remove,  and  to  take  what  things  of  value  they 
could  to  some  distance  from  the  dangerous  spot  where  they 
now  resided.  Some  of  the  inhabitants  of  Resina,  whom  he 
questioned,  declared  that  they  had  heard  strange  rumbling 
noises  under-ground ;  and  a  peasant  and  his  son,  who  had 
been  at  work  the  preceding  day  in  a  vineyard  a  little  above 
the  village,  related  that  they  had  seen  a  sudden  puff  of 
smoke  come  out  of  the  earth  close  to  them,  and  that  they 
had,  at  the  same  time,  heard  a  noise  like  the  going  off  of  a 
pistol.f  The  villagers  listened,  with  large  eyes  and  open 
ears,  to  these  relations ;  yet  such  was  their  habitual  attach- 
ment to  the  spot  they  had  lived  upon,  or  such  their  security 
in  their  own  good-fortune,  that  few  of  them  would  believe 
that  there  could  be  any  necessity  for  removing.  "  We  '11 
see  what  will  happen  to-morrow ;  we  shall  be  safe  here  one 
day  longer,"  said  they.  Francisco's  father  and  mother, 
more  prudent  thar  the  generality  of  their  neighbours,  weni 

*  Phil.  Trans,  vol.  ix. 

f  These  facts  are  mentioned  in  Sir  William  Hamilton's  account 
of  the  late  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius.  —  See  Phil.  Trans.  1795,  1st 
part. 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  251 

fcc  the  house  of  a  relation,  at  some  miles'  distance  from  Ve- 
suvius, and  carried  with  them  all  their  effects.  In  the  mean 
time,  Francisco  went  to  the  villa  where  his  English  friends 
resided  ;  this  villa  was  in  a  most  dangerous  situation,  near 
Torre  del  Greco,  a  town  that  stands  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Vesuvius.  He  related  all  the  facts  that  he  had  heard  to 
Arthur,  who,  not  having  been,  like  the  inhabitants  of  Re- 
sina,  familiarized  to  the  idea  of  living  in  the  vicinity  of  a 
burning  mountain,  and  habituated  to  trust  in  St.  Januarius, 
was  sufficiently  alarmed  by  Francisco's  representations :  he 
ran  to  his  master's  apartment,  and  communicated  all  that 
he  had  just  heard.  The  Count  di  F**  and  his  lady,  who 
were  at  this  time  in  the  house,  ridiculed  the  fears  of  Arthur, 
and  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  move,  even  as  far  as 
Naples.  The  lady  was  intent  upon  preparations  for  her 
birthday,  which  was  to  be  celebrated  in  a  few  days  with 
great  magnificence  at  their  villa ;  and  she  observed,  that  it 
would  be  a  pity  to  return  to  town  before  that  day,  as  they 
had  everything  arranged  for  the  festival.  The  prudent  Eng- 
lishman had  not  the  gallantry  to  appear  to  be  convinced  by 
these  arguments,  and  he  left  this  place  of  danger.  He  left 
it  not  too  soon,  for  the  next  morning  exhibited  a  scene  —  a 
scene  which  we  shall  not  attempt  to  describe.  We  refer  our 
young  readers  to  the  account  Sir  William  Hamilton  has 
published*  of  the  last  dreadful  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius. 
It  is  sufficient  here  to  say,  that  in  the  space  of  about  five 
hours,  the  wretched  inhabitants  of  Torre  del  Greco  saw 
their  town  utterly  destroyed  by  the  streams  of  burning  lava 
which  poured  from  the  mountain.  The  villa  of  Count  di 
F**,  with  some  others  which  were  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  town,  escaped  ;  but  they  were  absolutely  surrounded  by 
lava.  The  count  and  countess  were  obliged  to  fly  from  their 
house  with  the  utmost  precipitation  in  the  night  time,  and 
they  had  not  time  to  remove  any  of  their  furniture,  their 

k plate,  clothes,  or  jewels.     A  few  days  after  the  eruption,  the 


Philosophical  Transactions. 


252  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

surface  of  the  lava  became  so  cool  that  people  could  walk 
upon  it,  though  several  feet  beneath  the  surface  it  was  still 
exceedingly  hot;  numbers  of  those  who  had  been  forced 
from  their  houses  now  returned  to  the  ruins  to  try  to  save 
whatever  they  could ;  but  these  unfortunate  persons  fre- 
quently found  their  houses  had  been  pillaged  by  robbers, 
who,  in  these  moments  of  general  confusion,  enriched  them 
selves  with  the  spoils  of  their  fellow-creatures. 

"Has  the  count  abandoned  his  villa?  and  is  there  no  one 
to  take  care  of  his  plate  and  furniture  ?  —  The  house  will 
certainly  be  ransacked  before  morning,"  said  the  old  car- 
penter to  Francisco,  who  was  at  his  house  giving  him  an 
account  of  their  flight.  Francisco  immediately  went  to  the 
count's  house  in  Naples,  to  warn  him  of  his  danger.  The 
first  person  he  saw  was  Arthur,  who,  with  a  face  of  terror, 
said  to  him,  "  Do  you  know  what  has  happened  ?  It  *s  all 
over  with  Resina  !"  —  "  All  over  with  Resina !  What,  has 
there  been  a  fresh  eruption  ?  Has  the  lava  reached  Resina  ?" 
—  "  No :  but  it  will  inevitably  be  blown  up.  —  There,"  said 
Arthur,  pointing  to  a  thin  figure  of  an  Italian,  who  stood 
pale  and  trembling,  and  looking  up  to  heaven,  as  he  crossed 
himself  repeatedly  —  "there,"  said  Arthur,  "is  a  man  who 
has  left  a  parcel  of  his  cursed  rockets  and  fireworks,  with  I 
do  n't  know  how  much  gunpowder,  in  the  count's  house  from 
which  we  have  just  fled :  the  wind  blows  that  way ;  one 
spark  of  fire,  and  the  whole  is  blown  up."  Francisco  waited 
not  to  hear  more,  but  instantly,  without  explaining  his 
intentions  to  any  one,  set  out  for  the  count's  villa,  and,  with 
a  bucket  of  water  in  his  hand,  crossed  the  beds  of  lava  with 
which  the  house  was  encompassed,  reached  the  hall  where 
the  rookets  and  gunpowder  were  left,  plunged  them  into  the 
water,  and  returned  with  them  in  safety  over  the  lava,  yet 
warm  under  his  feet.  What  was  the  surprise  and  joy  of  the 
poor  firework-maker,  when  he  saw  Francisco  return  from 
this  dangerous  expedition !  He  could  scarcely  believe  his 
eyes  when  he  saw  the  rockets  and  the  gunpowder  a1    safe. 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.         253 

The  count,  who  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  saving  his  palace, 
was  in  admiration  when  he  heard  of  this  instance  of  intre- 
pidity, which  probably  saved,  not  only  his  villa,  but  the 
whole  village  of  Resina  from  destruction.  These  fireworks 
had  been  prepared  for  the  celebration  of  the  countess's 
birthday,  and  were  forgotten  in  the  hurry  of  the  night  on 
which  the  inhabitants  fled  from  Torre  del  Greco. 

"  Brave  young  man !"  said  the  count  to  Francisco,  "  I 
thank  you,  and  shall  not  limit  my  gratitude  to  thanks.  You 
tell  me  that  there  is  danger  of  my  villa's  being  pillaged  by 
robbers ;  it  is  from  this  moment  your  interest,  as  well  as 
mine,  to  prevent  their  depredations ;  for  a  portion,  trust  to 
my  liberality,  of  all  that  is  saved  of  mine  shall  be  yours." 

"  Bravo  !  bravissimo  !"  exclaimed  one,  who  started  from 
a  recessed  window  in  the  hall  where  all  this  passed  —  "  Bra- 
vo !  bravissimo!"  Francisco  thought  he  knew  the  voice 
and  the  countenance  of  this  man,  who  exclaimed  with  so 
much  enthusiasm  ;  he  remembered  to  have  seen  him  before, 
but  when,  or  where,  he  could  not  recollect.  As  soon  as  the 
count  left  the  hall,  the  stranger  came  up  to  Francisco  —  "  Is 
it  possible,"  said  he,  "that  you  don't  know  me?  —  It  is 
scarcely  a  twelvemonth  since  I  drew  tears  from  your  eyes." 
—  "  Tears  from  my  eyes  !"  repeated  Francisco,  smiling ; 
"I  have  shed  but  few  tears  —  I  have  had  but  few  misfor- 
tunes in  my  life."  The  stranger  answered  him  by  two 
extempore  Italian  lines,  which  conveyed  nearly  the  same 
idea  that  has  been  so  well  expressed  by  an  English  poet :  — 

"  To  each  of  their  sufferings  —  all  are  men 
Condemned  alike  to  groan ; 
The  feeling  for  another's  woes, 
Th'  unfeeling  for  his  own." 

"  I  know  you  now  perfectly  well,"  cried  Francisco ;  "  you 
are  the  improvisatore  who,  one  fine  moonlight  night  last 
summ  ^r,  told  us  the  story  of  Cornaro  the  Turk."  —  "  The 
same,"  said  the  improvisatore  —  "the  same,  though  in  a 


254         THE     LITTLE     MEKCHANTS. 

better  dress,  which  I  should  not  have  thought  would  have 
made  so  much  difference  in  your  eyes,  though  it  makes  all 
the  difference  between  man  and  man  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Btupid  vulgar.  My  genius  has  broken  through  the  clouds 
of  misfortune  of  late ;  a  few  happy  impromptu  verses  I 
made  on  the  Count  di  F**'s  fall  from  his  horse  attracted 
attention.  The  count  patronises  me  —  lam  here  now  to 
learn  the  fate  of  an  ode  I  have  just  composed  for  his  lady's 
birthday ;  my  ode  was  to  have  been  set  to  music,  and  to 
have  been  performed  at  his  villa  near  Torre  del  Greco,  if 
these  troubles  had  not  intervened.  Now  that  the  mountain 
is  quiet  again,  people  will  return  to  their  senses  ;  I  expect 
to  be  munificently  rewarded.  But  perhaps  I  detain  you. 
Go,  I  shall  not  forget  to  celebrate  the  heroic  action  you  have 
performed  this  day.  I  still  amuse  myself  among  the  popu- 
lace in  my  tattered  garb  late  in  the  evenings,  and  I  shall 
sound  your  praises  through  Naples  in  a  poem  I  mean  to 
recite  on  the  late  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius  —  Adieu." 

The  improvisatore  was  as  good  as  his  word ;  that  evening, 
with  more  than  his  usual  enthusiasm,  he  recited  his  verses 
to  a  great  crowd  of  people  in  one  of  the  public  squares. 
Among  the  crowd  were  several,  to  whom  the  name  of  Fran- 
cisco was  well  known,  and  by  whom  he  was  well  beloved. 
Thesi  were  his  young  companions,  who  remembered  him 
as  a  fruit-seller  among  the  little  merchants.  They  rejoiced 
to  hear  his  praises,  and  repeated  the  lines  with  shouts  of 
applause.  "Let  us  pass.  —  What  is  all  this  disturbance  in 
the  streets  ?"  said  a  man,  pushing  his  way  through  the 
crowd.  A  lad,  who  held  by  his  arm,  stopped  suddenly  on 
hearing  the  name  of  Francisco,  which  the  people  were 
repeating  with  so  much  enthusiasm.  "  Ha !  I  have  found 
at  last  a  story  that  interests  you  more  than  that  of  Cornaro 
the  Turk,"  cried  the  improvisatore,  looking  in  the  face  of 
the  youth  who  had  stopped  so  suddenly.  "You  are  the 
young  man  who,  last  summer,  bad  liked  to  have  tricked  me 
out  of  my  new  hat.     Promise  me  you  won't  touch  it  now," 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS,         255 

said  he,  throwing  down  the  hat  at  his  feet,  "  or  you  hear 
not  one  word  I  have  to  say  —  not  one  word  of  the  heroic 
action  performed  at  the  villa  of  Count  di  F*"*,  near  Torre 
del  Greco,  this  morning,  by  Signor  Francisco."  —  Signer 
Francisco !"  repeated  the  lad,  with  disdain ;  "  well,  let  us 
hear  what  you  have  to  tell  of  him,"  added  he.  "  Your  hat 
is  very  safe,  I  promise  you ;  I  shall  not  touch  it.  —  "What 
of  Signor  Francisco?"  —  "  Signor  Francisco  I  may  without 
impropriety  call  him,"  said  the  Improvisatore ;  "  for  he  is 
likely  to  become  rich  enough  to  command  the  title  from 
those  who  might  not  otherwise  respect  his  merit."  —  "  Likely 
to  become  rich  !  how  ?"  said  the  lad,  whom  our  readers  have 
probably  before  this  time  discovered  to  be  Piedro.  "  How, 
pray,  is  he  likely  to  become  rich  enough  to  be  a  signor  ?" 
—  "  The  Count  di  F**  has  promised  him  a  liberal  portion 
of  all  the  fine  furniture,  plate,  and  jewels  that  can  be  saved 
from  his  villa  at  Torre  del  Greco.  Francisco  is  gone  down 
thither  now  with  some  of  the  count's  domestics,  to  protect 
the  valuable  goods  against  those  villanous  plunderers  who 
rob  their  fellow-creatures  of  what  even  the  flames  of  Vesu- 
vius would  spare."  —  "  Come,  we  have  heard  enough  of  this 
stuff,"  cried  the  man  whose  arm  Piedro  held.  "  Come  away ;" 
and  he  hurried  forward. 

.This  man  was  one  of  the  villains  against  whom  the  honest 
orator  expressed  such  indignation.  He  was  one  of  those 
with  whom  Piedro  "got  acquainted  during  the  time  that  he 
was  living  extravagantly  upon  the  money  he  gained  by  the 
sale  of  the  stolen  diamond  cross.  That  robbery  was  not 
discovered,  and  his  success,  as  he  called  it,  hardened  him  in 
guilt ;  he  was  both  unwilling  and  unable  to  withdraw  him- 
self from  the  bad  company  with  whom  his  ill-gotten  wealth 
connected  him.  He  did  not  consider  that  bad  company 
leads  to  the  gallows.*  The  universal  confusion  which  fol- 
lowed the  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius  was  to  these  villains 
a  time  of  rejoicing.     No  sooner  was   there   any  wealthy 

*  "  La  male  compagnia  e  quella  che  men  a  huomini  alia  furca. 


256        THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

house  known  to  be  forsaken  by  the  possessors,  than  it  was 
infested  by  these  robbers.  No  sooner  did  Piedro's  compa- 
nion hear  of  the  rich  furniture,  plate,  &c.  which  the  impru- 
dent orator  had  described  as  belonging  to  the  Count  di  F**'8 
villa,  than  he  longed  to  make  himself  master  of  the  whole. 
"It  is  a  pity,"  said  Piedro,  "that  the  count  has  sent  Fran- 
cisco, with  his  servants,  to  guard  it."  —  "  And  who  is  this 
Francisco,  of  whom  you  seem  to  stand  in  such  awe  ?"  —  "A 
boy,  a  young  lad  only,  of  about  my  own  age ;  but  I  know 
him  to  be  sturdily  honest ;  the  servants  we  might  corrupt ; 
but  even  the  old  proverb  of  '  Angle  with  a  silver  hook/  * 
won't  hold  good  with  him."  —  "  And  if  he  cannot  be  won 
with  fair  means,  he  must  be  conquered  by  foul,"  said  the 
desperate  villain ;  "  but  if  we  offer  him  rather  more  than 
the  count  has  already  promised  for  his  share  of  the  booty, 
of  course  he  will  consult  at  once  his  safety  and  his  interest." 
—  "  No,"  said  Piedro,  "  this  is  not  his  nature :  I  know  him 
from  a  child,  and  we  had  better  think  of  some  other  house 
for  to-night's  business."  —  "  None  other ;  none  but  this," 
cried  his  companion  with  an  oath.  "  My  mind  is  deter- 
mined upon  this,  and  you  must  obey  your  leader;  —  recol- 
lect the  fate  of  him  who  failed  me  yesterday."  The  person 
to  whom  he  alluded  was  one  of  the  gang  of  robbers  who 
had  been  assassinated  by  his  companions,  for  hesitating  to 
commit  some  crime  suggested  by  their  leader.  No  tyranny 
is  so  dreadful  as  that  which  is  exercised  by  villains  over 
their  young  accomplices,  who  become  their  slaves.  Piedro, 
who  was  of  a  cowardly  nature,  trembled  at  the  threatening 
countenance  of  his  captain,  and  promised  submission.  In 
the  course  of  the  morning,  inquiries  were  made  secretly 
among  the  count's  servants ;  and  the  two  men  who  were 
engaged  to  sit  up  at  the  villa  that  night  along  with  Fran- 
cisco were  bribed  to  second  the  views  of  this  gang  of  thieves. 
It  was  agreed,  that  about  midnight  the  robbers  should  be 
iet  into  the  house  ;  that  Francisco  should  be  tied  hand  and 

*  Peschar  col  hamo  d'argento. 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  257 

foot,  while  they  carried  off  their  booty.  "  He  is  a  stubborn 
chap,  though  so  young,  I  understand/'  said  the  captain  of 
the  robbers  to  his  men ;  "  but  we  carry  poniards,  and  know 
how  to  use  them.  Piedro,  you  look  pale  —  you  do  n't  require 
to  be  reminded  of  what  I  said  to  you,  when  we  were  alone 
just  now?" 

Piedro's  voice  failed,  and  some  of  his  comrades  observed, 
that  he  was  young  and  new  to  the  business.  The  captain, 
who,  from  being  his  pretended  friend  during  his  wealthy 
days,  had  of  late  become  his  tyrant,  cast  a  stern  look  at 
Piedro,  and  bid  him  be  sure  to  be  at  the  old  Jew's,  which 
was  the  place  of  meeting,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening :  after 
saying  this  he  departed.  Piedro,  when  he  was  alone,  tried 
to  collect  his  thoughts :  all  his  thoughts  were  full  of  horror. 
"Where  ami?"  said  he  to  himself;  "what  am  I  about? 
Did  I  understand  rightly  what  he  said  about  poniards? 
Francisco !  Oh,  Francisco !  Excellent,  kind,  generous 
Francisco !  Yes,  I  recollect  your  look  when  you  held  the 
bunch  of  grapes  to  my  lips  as  I  sat  by  the  sea-shore  deserted 
by  all  the  world :  and  now  what  friends  have  I  ?  robbers 
and — "  the  word  murderers  he  could  not  utter ;  he  again  re- 
collected what  had  been  said  about  poniards,  and  the  longer 
his  mind  fixed  upon  the  words,  and  the  looks  that  accompa- 
nied them,  the  more  he  was  shocked.  He  could  not  doubt  but 
that  it  was  the  serious  intention  of  his  accomplices  to  murder 
Francisco,  if  he  should  make  any  resistance.  Piedro  had 
at  this  moment  no  friend  in  the  world  to  whom  he  could 
apply  for  advice  or  assistance  —  his  wretched  father  died 
some  weeks  before  this  time,  in  a  fit  of  intoxication.  Piedro 
walked  up  and  down  the  street,  scarcely  capable  of  think- 
ing, much  less  of  coming  to  any  rational  resolution  —  the 
hours  passed  away,  the  shadows  of  the  houses  lengthened 
under  his  footsteps  ;  the  evening  came  on,  and  when  it  grew 
dusk,  after  hesitating  in  great  agony  of  mind  for  some  time, 
his  fear  of  the  robber's  vengeance  prevailed  over  every  other 
feeling,  and  hr?  went  at  the  appointed  hour  to  the  place  of 
17 


258  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

meeting.  The  place  of  meeting  was  at  the  house  of  that 
Jew  to  whom  he,  several  months  before,  sold  the  diamond 
cross  —  that  cross,  which  he  thought  himself  so  lucky  to 
have  stolen,  and  to  have  disposed  of  undetected,  was,  in 
fact,  the  cause  of  his  being  in  his  present  dreadful  situation. 
It  was  at  the  Jew's  that  he  connected  himself  with  this 
gang  of  robbers,  to  whom  he  was  now  become  an  absolute 
slave.  "  0  that  I  dared  to  disobey  I"  said  he  to  himself, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  as  he  knocked  softly  at  the  back-door  of 
the  Jew's  house.  The  back-door  opened  into  a  narrow 
unfrequented  street,  and  some  small  rooms  at  this  side  of 
th3  house  were  set  apart  for  the  reception  of  guests  who 
desired  to  have  their  business  kept  secret.  These  rooms 
were  separated  by  a  dark  passage  from  the  rest  of  the  house, 
and  numbers  of  people  came  to  the  shop  in  the  front  of 
the  house,  which  looked  into  a  creditable  street,  without 
knowing  anything  more,  from  the  ostensible  appearance 
of  the  shop,  than  that  it  was  a  kind  of  pawnbrokers,  where 
old  clothes,  old  iron,  and  all  sorts  of  refuse  goods,  might  be 
disposed  of  conveniently.  At  the  moment  Piedro  knocked 
at  the  back-door,  the  front  shop  was  full  of  customers ;  and 
the  Jew's  boy,  whose  office  it  was  to  attend  to  these  signals, 
let  Piedro  in,  told  him  that  none  of  his  comrades  were  yet 
come,  and  left  him  in  a  room  by  himself.  He  was  pale  and 
trembling,  and  felt  a  cold  dew  spread  over  him  —  he  had  a 
leaden  image  of  St.  Januarius  tied  round  his  neck,  which, 
in  the  midst  of  his  wickedness,  he  superstitiously  preserved 
as  a  sort  of  charm ;  and  on  this  he  kept  his  eyes  stupidly 
fixed,  as  he  sat  alone  in  this  gloomy  place.  He  listened, 
from  time  to  time,  but  he  heard  no  noise  at  the  side  of  the 
house  where  he  was.  His  accomplices  did  not  arrive ;  and. 
in  a  sort  of  impatient  terror,  the  attendant  upon  an  evil 
conscience,  he  flung  open  the  door  of  his  cell,  and  groped 
his  way  through  the  dark  passage  which  he  knew  led  to  the 
public  shop — he  longed  to  hear  some  noise,  and  to  mix 
with  the  living.     The  Jew,  when  Piedro  entered  the  shop, 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 


259 


wad  bargaining  with  a  poor  thin-looking  man,  about  some 
gunpowder. 

"  I  do  n't  deny  that  it  has  been  wet,"  said  the  man;  "  but 
since  it  was  in  the  bucket  it  has  been  carefully  dried.  1 
tell  you  the  simple  truth :  so  soon  after  the  grand  eruption 
of  Mount  Vesuvius,  the  people  of  Naples  will  not  taste  fire 
works.  My  poor  little  rockets,  and  even  my  Catharine's- 
wheels,  will  have  no  effect :  I  am  glad  to  part  with  all  I  have 
in  this  line  of  business.  A  few  days  ago  I  had  fine  things 
in  readiness  for  the  Countess  di  F**'s  birthday,  which  was 
to  have  been  celebrated  at  the  count's  villa."  —  "  Why  do 
you  fix  your  eyes  on  me,  friend  ?  What  is  your  discourse 
to  me  t"  said  Piedro,  who  imagined  that  the  man  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  him  as  he  mentioned  the  name  of  the  count's 
villa.  "  I  did  not  know  that  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  you ;  I 
was  thinking  of  my  fireworks,"  said  the  man  simply ; 
"  but,  now  that  I  do  look  at  you,  and  hear  your  voice,  I 
recollect  having  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before."  — 
"  When  ?  where  ?"  said  Piedro.  "  A  great  while  ago  ;  no 
wonder  you  have  forgotten  me,"  said  the  man  ;  "  but  I  can 
recall  the  night  to  your  recollection  —  you  were  in  the  street 
with  me  the  night  I  let  off  that  unlucky  rocket  which  fright- 
ened the  horses,  and  was  the  cause  of  overturning  a  lady's 
coach.  Do  n't  you  remember  the  circumstance  ?"  —  "I  have 
a  confused  recollection  of  some  such  thing,"  said  Piedro, 
in  great  embarrassment,  and  he  looked  suspiciously  at  this 
man,  in  doubt  whether  he  was  cunning  and  wanted  to  sound 
him,  or  whether  he  was  so  simple  as  he  appeared.  "  You 
did  not  perhaps  hear  then,"  continued  the  man,  "  that  there 
was  a  great  search  made,  after  the  overturn,  for  a  fine  dia- 
mond cross,  belonging  to  the  lady  in  the  carriage  ?  That 
lady,  though  I  did  not  know  it  till  lately,  was  the  Countess 
di  F**."  —  "I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,"  interrupted 
Piedro,  in  great  agitation.  His  confusion  was  so  marked, 
that  the  firework-maker  could  not  avoid  taking  notice  of 
it,  and  a  silence  of  some  moments  ensuecL     The  Jew,  more 


260  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

practised  in  dissimulation  than  Piedro,  endeavoured  to  turn 
the  man's  attention  back  to  his  rockets  and  his  gunpowder 

—  agreed  to  take  the  gunpowder  —  paid  for  it  in  haste,  and 
was,  though  apparently  unconcerned,  eager  to  get  rid  of 
him.  But  this  was  not  so  easily  done  ;  the  man's  curiosity 
was  so  excited,  and  his  suspicions  of  Piedro  were  increased 
every  moment  by  all  the  dark  changes  in  his  countenance. 
Piedro,  overpowered  with  the  sense  of  guilt,  surprised  at 
the  unexpected  mention  of  the  diamond  cross,  and  of  the 
Count  di  F**'s  villa,  stood  like  one  convicted,  and  seemed 
fixed  to  the  spot,  without  power  of  motion.  "  I  want  to 
look  at  the  old  cambric  that  you  said  you  had  —  that  would 
do  for  making  —  that  you  could  let  me  have  cheap,  for  arti- 
ficial flowers,"  said  the  firework-maker  to  the  Jew ;  and  as 
he  spoke,  his  eye  from  time  to  time  looked  towards  Piedro. 
Piedro  felt  for  the  leaden  image  of  the  saint  which  he  wore 
round  his  neck ;  the  string  which  held  it  cracked,  and  broke 
with  the  pull  he  gave  it.  This  slight  circumstance  affected 
his  terrified  and  superstitious  mind  more  than  all  the  rest. 
He  imagined  that  at  this  moment  his  fate  was  decided ;  that 
St.  Januarius  deserted  him,  and  that  he  was  undone.  He 
precipitately  followed  the  poor  firework-man  the  instant  he 
left  the  shop,  and  seizing  hold  of  his  arm,  whispered,  "I 
must  speak  to  you."  —  "  Speak,  then,"  said  the  man,  aston- 
ished. "  Not  here,  this  way,"  said  he,  drawing  him  towards 
the  dark  passage ;  "  what  I  have  to  say  must  not  be  over- 
heard.   You  are  going  to  the  Count  di  F**'s,  are  not  you?" 

—  "I  am,"  said  the  man.  He  was  going  there  to  speak  to 
the  countess  about  some  artificial  flowers,  but  Piedro  thought 
he  was  going  to  speak  to  her  about  the  diamond  cross. 
"  You  are  going  to  give  information  against  me  ?  Nay, 
hear  me,  I  confess  that  I  purloined  a  diamond  cross ;  but  I 
can  do  the  count  a  great  service,  upon  condition  that  he 
pardons  me.  His  villa  is  to  be  attacked  this  night  by  four 
well-armed  men ;  they  will  set  out  five  hours  hence ;  I  am 
compelled  under  the  threat  of  assassination  to  accompany 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.         261 

ihem,  but  I  shall  do  no  more.  I  throw  myself  upon  the 
count's  mercy.  Hasten  to  him  —  we  have  no  time  to  lose." 
The  poor  man,  who  heard  this  confession,  escaped  from 
Piedro  the  moment  he  loosed  his  arm.  With  all  possible 
expedition  he  ran  to  the  count's  palace  in  Naples,  and 
related  to  him  all  that  had  been  said  by  Piedro.  Some  of 
the  count's  servants  on  whom  he  could  most  depend  were 
at  a  distant  part  of  the  city  attending  their  mistress ;  but 
the  English  gentleman  offered  the  services  of  his  man  Ar- 
thur. Arthur  no  sooner  heard  the  business,  and  understood 
that  Francisco  was  in  danger,  than  he  armed  himself  with- 
out saying  one  word,  saddled  his  English  horse,  and  was 
ready  to  depart  before  any  one  else  had  finished  their  excla- 
mations and  conjectures.  "  But  we  are  not  to  set  out  yet, 
it  is  but  four  miles  to  Torre  del  Greco;  the  sbirri  (officers 
of  justice)  are  summoned  —  they  are  to  go  with  us  —  we 
must  wait  for  them."  They  waited,  much  against  Arthur's 
inclination,  a  considerable  time  for  these  sbirri.  At  length 
they  set  out,  and  just  as  they  reached  the  villa,  the  flash  of 
a  pistol  was  seen  from  one  of  the  apartments  in  the  house. 
The  robbers  were  there  —  this  pistol  was  snapped  by  theii 
captain  at  poor  Francisco,  who  had  bravely  asserted  that  he 
would,  as  long  as  he  had  life,  defend  the  property  committed 
to  his  care.  The  pistol  missed  fire  —  for  it  was  charged  with 
some  of  the  damaged  powder  which  the  Jew  had  bought 
that  evening  from  the  firework-maker,  and  which  he  had 
sold  as  excellent  immediately  afterward  to  his  favourite  cus- 
tomers, the  robbers  who  met  at  his  house.  Arthur,  as  soon 
as  he  perceived  the  flash  of  the  piece,  pressed  forward 
through  all  the  apartments,  followed  by  the  count's  servants 
and  the  officers  of  justice;  at  the  appearance,  the  sudden 
appearance,  of  so  many  armed  men,  the  robbers  stood  dis- 
mayed. Arthur  eagerly  shook  Francisco's  hand,  congratu- 
lating him  upon  his  safety,  and  did  not  perceive,  until  he 
had  given  him  several  rough  friendly  shakes,  that  his  arm 
was  wounded,  and  that  he  was  pale  with  the  loss  of  blood. 


262  THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS. 

"It  is  not  much,  only  a  slight  wound,"  said  Francisco. 
"  one  that  I  should  have  escaped,  if  I  had  been  upon  my 
guard  ;  but  the  sight  of  a  face  I  little  expected  to  see  in 
such  company  took  from  me  all  presence  of  mind;  and  one 
of  the  ruffians  stabbed  me  here  in  the  arm,  while  I  stood  in 
stupid  astonishment." 

"  Oh  !  take  me  to  prison  !  take  me  to  prison  —  I  am  weary 
of  life  —  I  am  a  wretch  not  fit  to  live  I"  cried  Piedro,  hold- 
ing his  hands  to  be  tied  by  the  sbirri. 

He  was  taken  to  prison  the  next  morning ;  and  as  he 
passed  through  the  streets  of  Naples  he  was  met  by  several 
of  those  who  had  known  him  when  he  was  a  child.  "  Ay," 
said  they,  as  he  went  by,  "  his  father  encouraged  him  in 
cheating  when  he  was  but  a  child  ;  and  see  what  he 's  come 
to  now  he  is  a  man !"  He  was  ordered  to  remain  twelve 
months  in  solitary  confinement.  His  captain  and  his  accom- 
plices were  sent  to  the  galleys,  and  the  Jew  was  banished 
from  Naples.  And  now,  having  gotten  these  villains  out 
of  our  way,  let  us  return  to  honest  Francisco.  His  wound 
was  soon  healed.  Arthur  was  no  bad  surgeon,  for  he  let 
his  patient  get  well  as  fast  as  he  pleased ;  and  Carlo  and 
Rosetta  nursed  him  with  so  much  kindness,  that  he  was 
almost  sorry  to  find  himself  perfectly  recovered.  "  Now 
that  you  are  able  to  go  out,"  said  Francisco's  father  to  him, 
"  you  must  come  and  look  at  my  new  house,  my  dear  son." 
—  "  Your  new  house,  father  I"  —  "  Yes,  son,  and  a  charm 
ing  one  it  is,  and  a  handsome  piece  of  land  near  it  —  all  a* 
a  safe  distance  too  from  Mount  Vesuvius ;  and  can  you 
guess  how  I  came  by  it?  —  it  was  given  to  me  for  having 
a  good  son."  —  "Yes,"  cried  Carlo,  "the  inhabitants  of 
Resina,  and  several  who  had  property  near  Torre  del  Greco, 
and  whose  houses  and  lives  were  saved  by  your  intrepidity 
in  carrying  the  materials  for  the  fireworks  and  the  gun- 
powder out  of  this  dangerous  place,  went  in  a  body  to  the 
duke,  and  requested  that  he  would  mention  your  name  and 
these  facts  to  ths  king,  who,  among  the  grants  he  has  made 


THE     LITTLE     MERCHANTS.  263 

to  the  sufferers  by  the  late  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius,  has 
been  pleased  to  say,  that  he  gives  this  house  and  garden  to 
your  father,  because  you  have  saved  the  property  and  lives 
of  many  of  his  subjects." 

The  value  of  a  handsome  portion  of  the  furniture,  plate, 
&c,  in  the  Count  di  F**'s  villa,  was,  according  to  the  count's 
promise,  given  to  him ;  and  this  money  he  divided  between 
his  own  family  and  that  of  the  good  carpenter,  who  first  put 
a  pencil  into  his  hands.     Arthur  would  not  accept  of  any 

present  from  him.     To  Mr. ,  the  English  gentleman, 

he  offered  one  of  his  own  drawings  —  a  fruit  piece.  "  I  like 
this  very  well,"  said  Arthur,  as  he  examined  the  drawing ; 
"  but  I  should  like  this  melon  better  if  it  was  a  little  bruised. 
It  is  now  three  years  ago  since  I  was  going  to  buy  that 
bruised  melon  from  you  ;  you  showed  me  your  honest  nature 
then,  though  you  were  but  a  boy,  and  I  have  found  you  the 
same  ever  since.  A  good  beginning  makes  a  good  ending 
—  an  honest  boy  will  make  an  honest  man,  and  honesty  is 
the  best  policy,  as  you  have  proved  to  all  who  wanted  the 
proof,  I  hope."  —  "  Yes,"  added  Francisco's  father,  "  I  think 
it  is  pretty  plain  that  Piedro  the  Cunning  has  not  managed 
quite  so  well  as  Francisco  the  Honest." 


OLD  POZ. 


Lucy,  daughter  to  the  Justice. 

Mrs.  Bustle,  landlady  of  the  Saracen's  Head. 

Justice  Headstrong. 

Old  Man. 

William,  a  Servant 


i^WWV\A/» 


SCENE  I. 


The  house  of  Justice  Headstrong  —  a  hall.     Ziucy  watering 
some  myrtles —  a  servant  behind  the  scenes  is  heard  to  say — 

I  tell  you  my  master  is  not  up  —  you  can't  see  him ;  so 
go  about  your  business,  I  say. 

Lucy.  "Who  are  you  speaking  to,  William  ?    Who 's  that? 

Will.  Only  an  old  man,  miss,  with  a  complaint  for  my 
master. 

Lucy.  Oh,  then,  do  n't  send  him  away  —  do  n't  send  him 
away. 

Will.  But  master  has  not  had  his  chocolate,  ma'am.  He 
won't  see  anybody  ever  before  he  drinks  his  chocolate,  you 
know,  ma'am. 

Lucy.  But  let  the  old  man  then  come  in  here  —  perhaps 
he  can  wait  a  little  while  —  call  him.  [Exit  servant. 

[Lucy  sings,  and  goes  on  watering  her  myrtles,  the 
servant  shows  in  the  Old  Man. 

Will.  You  can't  see  my  master  this  hour,  but  miss  will 
let  you  stay  here, 

Lucy,  (aside.)  Poor  old  man,  how  he  trembles  as  ho 

(264) 


OLD     P  0  Z 


265 


walks !  —  (Aloud.)  Sit  down,  sit  down,  my  father  will  see 
you  soon ;  pray  sit  down. 

[He  hesitates,  she  pushes  a  chair  towards  him. 

Lucy.  Pray  sit  down.  [He  sits  down. 

Old  Man.  You  are  very  good,  miss ;  very  good. 

[Lucy  goes  to  her  myrtles  again. 

Lucy.  Ah!  I'm  afraid  this  poor  myrtle  is  quite  dead  — 
quite  dead.  [The  Old  Man  sighs,  and  she  turns  round, 

Lucy,  (aside.)  I  wonder  what  can  make  him  sigh  so!  — 
(Aloud.)  My  father  won't  make  you  wait  long. 

Old  Man.  0,  ma'am,  as  long  as  he  pleases  —  I'm  in  no 
haste  —  no  haste:  it's  only  a  small  matter. 

Lucy.  But  does  a  small  matter  make  you  sigh  so? 

Old  M.  Ah,  miss ;  because,  though  it  is  a  small  matter 
in  itself,  it  is  not  a  small  matter  to  me  (sighing  again)  — 
it  was  my  all,  and  I  've  lost  it. 

Lucy.  What  do  you  mean  ?     "What  have  you  lost  ? 

Old  M.  "Why,  miss  —  but  I  won't  trouble  you  about  it. 

Lucy.  But  it  won't  trouble  me  at  all  —  I  mean  I  wish  to 
hear  it  —  so  tell  it  me. 

Old  M.  Why,  miss,  I  slept  last  night  at  the  inn  here  in 
town  —  the  Saracen's  Head — 

Lucy,  (interrupts  him.)  Hark,  there  is  my  father  coming 
down-stairs ;  follow  me  —  you  may  tell  me  your  story  as  wo 
go  along. 

Old  M.  I  slept  at  the  Saracen's  Head,  miss,  and — 

[Exit,  talking. 


SCENE   II. 
Justice  Headstrong's  Study. 

\  He  appears  in  his  night-gown  and  cap,  with  his  gouty  foot 
upon  a  stool  —  a  table  and  chocolate  beside  him  —  Lucy  is 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.) 

Just.  Well,  well,  my  darling,  presently  —  I'll  see  him 
presently. 


266  old   poz. 

Lacy.  "While  you  are  drinking  your  chocolate,  papa  ? 

Just.  No,  no,  no  —  I  never  see  anybody  till  I  have  done 
my  chocolate,  darling.  (He  tastes  his  chocolate.)  There  'e 
no  sugar  in  this,  child. 

Lucy.  Yes,  indeed,  papa. 

Just.  No,  child  —  there 's  no  sugar,  I  tell  you  —  that  'a 
poz! 

Lacy.  Oh,  but,  papa,  I  assure  you  I  put  in  two  lumps 
myself. 

Just.  There 's  no  sugar,  I  say  —  why  will  you  contradict 
me,  child,  for  ever  ?  —  There 's  no  sugar,  I  say. 

[Lucy  leans  over  him  playfully,  and  with  his  teaspoon 
pulls  out  two  lumps  of  sugar. 

Lucy.  What 's  this,  papa  ? 

Just.  Pshaw !  pshaw !  pshaw !  it  is  not  melted,  child  — 
it  is  the  same  as  no  sugar.  Oh,  my  foot,  girl,  my  foot  — 
you  kill  me  —  go,  go,  I  'm  busy  —  I  've  business  to  do.  Go 
and  send  William  to  me  :  do  you  hear,  love  ? 

Lucy.  And  the  old  man,  papa  ? 

Just.  What  old  man?  I  tell  you  what,  I've  been  plagued 
ever  since  I  was  awake,  and  before  I  was  awake,  about  that 
old  man.  If  he  can't  wait,  let  him  go  about  his  business  — 
do  n't  you  know,  child,  I  never  see  anybody  till  I  've  drunk 
my  chocolate ;  and  I  never  will,  if  it  was  a  duke,  that 's 
poz  !  Why,  it  has  but  just  struck  twelve ;  if  he  can't  wait, 
he  can  go  about  his  business,  can't  he  ? 

Lucy.  0,  sir,  he  can  wait.  It  was  not  he  who  was  impa- 
tient :  (she  comes  back  playfully)  it  was  only  I,  papa ;  do  n't 
be  angry. 

Just.  Well  —  well,  well  (finishing  his  cup  of  chocolate, 
and  pushing  the  dish  away) ;  and,  at  any  rate,  there  was  not 
sugar  enough  —  send  William,  send  William,  child,  and  I  '11 
finish  my  own  business,  and  then — 

[Exit  Lucy,  dancing,  "  And  then  !  —  and  then  I" 
Justice,  alone. 
—Oh  this  foot  of  mine  !  (twinges)  —  oh  this  foot !     Ay,  if 


old   poz.  267 

Doctor  Sparerib  could  cure  one  of  the  gout,  then,  indeed,  I 
should  think  something  of  him  —  but  as  to  my  leaving  off 
my  bottle  of  port,  it 's  nonsense,  it 's  all  nonsense,  and  I 
can't  do  it  —  I  can't,  and  I  won't  for  all  the  Doctor  Spare- 
ribs  in  Christendom,  that 's  poz  ! 

Enter  "William. 

Just.  William  —  oh  !  ay  —  hey  —  what  answer,  pray,  did 
you  bring  from  the  Saracen's  Head?  —  Did  you  see  Mrs. 
Bustle  herself,  as  I  bid  you  ? 

Will.  Yes,  sir,  I  saw  the  landlady  herself —  she  said  she 
would  come  up  immediately,  sir. 

Just.  Ah,  that 's  well  —  immediately  ? 

Will.  Yes,  sir,  and  I  hear  her  voice  below  now. 

Just.  Oh  show  her  up,  show  Mrs.  Bustle  in. 

Enter  Mrs.  Bustle,  the  Landlady  of  the  Saracen's  Head. 

Land.  Good-morrow  to  your  worship !  —  I  'm  glad  to  see 
your  worship  looking  so  purely  —  I  came  up  with  all  speed 
{taking  breath).  Our  pie  is  in  the  oven  —  that  was  what 
you  sent  for  me  about,  I  take  it. 

Just.  True  —  true;  sit  down,  good  Mrs.  Bustle:  pray — 

Land.  0,  your  worship 's  always  very  good  [settling  her 
apron) ;  I  came  up  just  as  I  was,  only  threw  my  shawl  over 
me  —  I  thought  your  worship  would  excuse  —  I'm  quite, 
as  it  were,  rejoiced  to  see  your  worship  look  so  purely,  and 
to  find  you  up  so  hearty — 

Just.  0,  I'm  very  hearty  [coughing),  always  hearty,  and 
thankful  for  it.  I  hope  to  see  many  Christmas  doings  yet, 
Mrs.  Bustle  —  and  so  our  pie  is  in  the  oven,  I  think  you 
say? 

Land.  In  the  oven  it  is  —  I  put  it  in  with  my  own  hands  ; 
and,  if  we  have  but  good  luck  in  the  baking,  it  will  be  as 
pretty  a  goose-pie,  though  I  say  it  that  should  not  say  it,  as 
pretty  a  goose-pie  as  ever  your  worship  set  your  eye  upon. 

Just.  Will  you  take  a  glass  of  anything  this  morning, 
Mrs.  Bustle  ?    I  have  some  nice  usquebaugh. 


268  old   poz. 

Land.  Oh,  no,  your  worship !  I  thank  your  worship, 
though,  as  much  as  if  I  took  it ;  but  I  just  took  my  luncheon 
before  I  came  up,  or,  more  proper,  my  sandwich,  I  should 
say,  for  the  fashion's  sake,  to  be  sure.  A  luncheon  won't  go 
down  with  nobody  nowaday  [laughs)  —  I  expect  hostler  and 
boots  will  be  calling  for  their  sandwiches  just  now  [laughs 
again)  — I  'm  sure  I  beg  your  worship's  pardon  for  mention- 
ing a  luncheon. 

Just.  Oh,  Mrs.  Bustle,  the  word's  a  good  word,  for  it 
means  a  good  thing,  ha !  ha !  ha !  [pulls  out  his  watch)  — 
but  pray,  is  it  luncheon-time?  Why,  it's  past  one,  I 
declare !  and  I  thought  I  was  up  in  remarkably  good  time, 
too. 

Land.  Well,  and  to  be  sure,  so  it  was  remarkably  good 
time  for  your  worship ;  but  folks  in  our  way  must  be  up 
betimes,  you  know.  I  've  been  up  and  about  these  seven 
hours ! 

Just,  [stretching.)  Seven  hours  ! 

Land.  Ay,  indeed !  eight,  I  might  say ;  for  I  'm  an  earlv 
little  body,  though  I  say  it  that  should  not  say  it  —  I  am  an 
early  little  body. 

Just.  An  early  little  body,  as  you  say,  Mrs.  "Bustle :  so  I 
shall  have  my  goose-pie  for  dinner,  eh  ? 

Land.  For  dinner,  as  sure  as  the  clock  strikes  four ;  but 
I  mustn't  stay  prating,  for  it  may  be  spoiling  if  I'm  away 
—  so  I  must  wish  your  worship  a  good-morning. 

[She  courtesies. 

Just.  No  ceremony,  no  ceremony,  good  Mrs.  Bustle ;  your 
servant. 

Enter  William,  to  take  away  the  chocolate  —  the  Landlady  is 
putting  on  her  shawl. 
Just.  You  may  let  that  man  know,  William,  that  I  have 
despatched  my  own  business,  and  I  am  at  leisure  for  his 
now  [taking  a  pinch  of  snuff)  — hum !  pray,  William  [Jus- 
tice leans  back  gravely),  what  sort  of  a  looking  fellow  is  he, 
pray? 


OLD     P  0  Z. 


269 


Will.  Most  like  a  sort  of  travelling  man,  in  my  opinion, 
eir, — or  something  that  way,  I  take  it. 

[At  these  ivords  the  Landlady  turns  round  inquisitively, 
and  delays,  that  she  may  listen  while  she  is  putting 
on  and  pinning  her  shawl. 
Just.  Hum  —  a  sort  of  travelling  man  —  hum  —  lay  my 
books  out  open  at  the  title  Vagrant:  and,  William,  tell  the 
cook  that  Mrs.  Bustle  promises  me  the  goose-pie  for  dinner : 
four  o'clock,  do  you  hear  ?     And  show  the  old  man  in  now. 
[The  Landlady  looks  eagerly  towards  the  door  as  it 
opens,  and  exclaims — 
Land.  My  old  gentleman,  as  I  hope  to  breathe ! 

Enter  the  Old  Man. 
[Lucy  follows  the  Old  Man  on  tiptoe  —  the  Justice  leans  back, 

and  looks    consequential  —  the  Landlady  sets  her    arms 

a-kimbo  —  the  Old  Man  starts  as  he  sees  her.) 

Just.  What  stops  you,  friend?  Come  forward,  if  you  please. 

Land,  [advancing.)  So,  sir!  is  it  you,  sir?  Ay,  you  little 
looked,  I  warrant  ye,  to  meet  me  here  with  his  worship  ;  but 
there  you  reckoned  without  your  host  —  out  of  the  frying- 
pan  into  the  fire. 

Just.  What  is  all  this  ?  what  is  this  ? 

Land,  [running  on.)  None  of  your  flummery  stuff  will 
go  down  with  his  worship  no  more  than  with  me,  I  give  ye 
warning  —  so  you  may  go  farther  and  fare  worse,  and  spare 
your  breath  to  cool  your  porridge. 

Just,  [waves  his  hand  with  dignity.)  Mrs.  Bustle,  good 
Mrs.  Bustle,  remember  where  you  are  —  silence!  silence  I 
Come  forward,  sir,  and  let  me  hear  what  you  have  to  say. 

[The  Old  Man  comes  forward. 

Just.  Who  and  what  may  you  be,  friend  ?  and  what  is 
your  business  with  me  ? 

Land.  Sir,  if  your  worship  will  give  me  leave — 

[Justice  makes  a  sign  to  her  to  be  silent 

Old  M.  Please  your  worship,  I  am  an  old  soldier — 


270  OLD     P  0  z . 

Land,  {interrupting.)  An  old  hypocrite,  say. 

Just.  Mrs.  Bustle,  pray  —  I  desire  —  let  the  man  speak. 

Old  M.  For  these  two  years  past  —  ever  since,  please 
your  worship  —  I  was  n't  able  to  work  any  longer  ;  for  in 
my  youth  I  did  work  as  well  as  the  best  of  them. 

Land,  [eager  to  interrupt.)  You  work !  you — 

Just.  Let  him  finish  his  story,  I  say. 

Lacy.  Ay,  do,  do,  papa,  speak  for  him.  Pray,  Mrs.  Bustle — 

Land,  [turning  suddenly  round  to  Lucy.)  Miss !  A  good- 
morrow  to  you,  ma'am !  I  humbly  beg  your  apologies  for 
not  seeing  you  sooner,  Miss  Lucy. 

[Justice  nods  to  tlie  Old  Man,  who  goes  on. 

Old  M.  But,  please  your  worship,  it  pleased  God  to  take 
away  the  use  of  my  left  arm,  and,  since  that,  I  never  have 
been  able  to  work. 

Land.  Flummery !  flummery ! 

Just,  [angrily.)  Mrs.  Bustle,  I  have  desired  silence,  and 
I  will  have  it,  that 's  poz  !  You  shall  have  your  turn  pre- 
sently. 

Old  M.  For  these  two  years  past  —  for  why  should  I  be 
ashamed  to  tell  the  truth  ?  —  I  have  lived  upon  charity ;  and 
I  scraped  together  a  guinea  and  a  half,  and  upwards,  and  1 
was  travelling  with  it  to  my  grandson,  in  the  north,  with 
him  to  end  my  days,  but —  [sighing.) 

Just.  Sw^what?     Proceed,  pray,  to  the  point. 

Old  M.  But  last  night  I  slept  here  in  town,  please  your 
worship,  at  the  Saracen's  Head. 

Land,  [in  a  rage.)  At  the  Saracen's  Head  !  yes,  forsooth, 
none  such  ever  slept  at  the  Saracen's  Head  afore,  or  ever 
shall  after,  as  long  as  my  name  's  Bustle,  and  the  Saracen's 
Head  is  the  Saracen's  Head. 

Just,  Again  !  again !  Mrs.  Landlady,  this  is  downright 
—  I  have  said  you  should  speak  presently  —  he  shall  speak 
first,  since  I  've  said  it,  that 's  poz  !  Speak  on,  friend :  you 
slept  last  night  at  the  Saracen's  Head. 

Old  M.  Yes,  please  your  worship,  and  I  accuse  nobody ; 


OLD     P  0  z.  271 

Dot  at  night  I  had  my  little  mDney  safe,  and  in  the  morning 
it  was  gone. 

Land  Gone  !  gone,  indeed,  in  my  house  !  and  this  is  the 
way  I'm  to  be  treated!  is  it  so?  I  couldn't  bat  speak, 
please  your  worship,  to  such  an  inhuman-like,  out-o'-the- 
way,  scandalous  charge,  if  King  George,  and  all  the  royal 
family,  were  sitting  in  your  worship's  chair,  besides  you,  to 
silence  me.  —  [Turning  to  the  Old  Man.)  And  this  is  your 
gratitude,  forsooth !  Did  n't  you  tell  me  that  any  hole  in 
my  house  was  good  enough  for  you,  you  wheedling  hypo- 
crite ?  and  my  thanks  is,  to  call  me  and  mine  a  pack  of 
thieves ! 

Old  M.  Oh,  no,  no,  no,  no,  —  a  pack  of  thieves,  by  nc 


Land.  Ay,  I  thought  when  I  came  to  speak  we  should 
have  you  upon  your  marrow-bones  in — 

Just,  {imperiously.)  Silence  !  five  times  have  I  commanded 
silence,  and  five  times  in  vain ;  and  I  won't  command  any- 
thing five  times  in  vain,  that 's  poz  ! 

Land,  [in  a  pet,  aside.)  Old  Poz  !  —  [Aloud.)  Then,  your 
worship,  I  do  n't  see  any  business  I  have  to  be  waiting  here 
—  the  folks  will  want  me  at  home.  —  [Returning,  and  ichis- 
pering.)  Shall  I  send  the  goose-pie  up,  your  worship,  if  it's 
ready  ? 

Just,  [with  magnanimity.)  I  care  not  for  the  goose-pie, 
Mrs.  Bustle  —  do  not  talk  to  me  of  goose-pies  —  this  is  no 
place  to  talk  of  pies. 

Land.  Oh,  for  that  matter,  your  worship  knows  best,  tc 
be  sure.  [Exit  Landlady,  angry, 


SCENE   III. 

Justice  Headstrong,  Old  Max,  and  Lucy. 

Lucy.  Ah,  now  I  'm  glad  he  can  speak  —  now  tell  papa  ; 
and  you  need  not  be  afraid  to  speak  to  him,  for  he  is  very 


272  old    poz. 

good-natured  —  don't  coDtradict  him,  though,  because  he 
told  me  not. 

Just.  Oh,  darling,  you  shall  contradict  me  as  often  as  you 
please — only  not  before  I've  drunk  my  chocolate,  child,— 
eh*  Go  on,  my  good  friend,  you  see  what  it  is  to  live  in 
old  England,  where,  thank  Heaven!  the  poorest  of  his 
majesty's  subjects  may  have  justice,  and  speak  his  mind 
before  the  first  man  in  the  land.  Now  speak  on,  and  you 
hear  she  tells  you  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  me  —  speak  on. 

Old  M.  I  thank  your  worship,  I  'm  sure. 

Just.  Thank  me  !  for  what,  sir  ?  I  won't  be  thanked  for 
doing  justice,  sir !  So,  —  but  explain  this  matter.  You  lost 
your  money,  eh,  at  the  Saracen's  Head?  —  you  had  it  safe 
last  night,  eh  ?  —  and  you  missed  it  this  morning  ?  Are  you 
sure  you  had  it  safe  at  night? 

Old  M.  Oh,  please  your  worship,  quite  sure ;  for  I  took 
it  out  and  looked  at  it  just  before  I  said  my  prayers. 

Just.  You  did,  did  ye  so  ?  —  hum !  pray,  my  good  friend, 
where  might  you  put  your  money  when  you  went  to  bed  ? 

Old  M.  Please  your  worship,  where  I  always  put  it  — 
always  —  in  my  tobacco-box. 

Just.  Your  tobacco-box !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing 
—  to  make  a  strong  box  of  a  tobacco-box  —  ha !  ha !  ha !  — 
hum  !  and  you  say  the  box  and  all  was  gone  in  the  morn- 
ing? 

Old  M.  No,  please  your  worship,  —  no,  not  the  box  —  the 
box  was  never  stirred  from  the  place  where  I  put  it.  They 
left  me  the  box. 

Just.  Tut,  tut,  tut,  man!  —  took  the  money  and  left  the 
box!  I'll  never  believe  that;  I '11  never  believe  that  any 
one  could  be  such  a  fool.  Tut,  tut !  the  thing 's  impossible : 
it 's  well  you  're  not  upon  oath. 

Old  M.  If  I  was,  please  your  worship,  I  should  say  the 
same,  for  it  is  the  truth. 

Just.  Do  n't  tell  me,  do  n't  tell  me ;  I  say  the  thing  is 
impossible. 


old    poz.  273 

Old  M.  Please  your  worship,  here 's  the  box. 

Just,  (goes  on  without  looking  at  it.)  Nonsense  !  nonsense  ! 
It's  no  such  thing,  it's  no  such  thing,  I  say  —  no  man  would 
take  the  money  and  leave  the  tobacco-box.  I  won't  believe 
it  —  nothing  shall  make  me  believe  it  ever  —  that's  poz  ! 

Imcij.  (takes  the  box,  and  holds  it  up  before  fter  father's 
eyes.)  You  did  not  see  the  box,  did  you,  papa? 

Just.  Yes,  yes,  yes,  child  —  nonsense  !  it 's  all  a  lie  from 
beginning  to  end.  A  man  who  tells  one  lie  will  tell  a  hun- 
dred —  all  a  lie,  all  a  lie ! 

Old  M.  If  your  worship  would  give  me  leave — 

Just.  Sir,  it  does  not  signify  —  it  does  not  signify ;  I  've 
said  it,  I  've  said  it,  and  that 's  enough  to  convince  me  ;  and 
I  '11  tell  you  more,  if  my  lord  chief  justice  of  England  told 
it  to  me,  I  would  not  believe  it,  —  that's  poz  ! 

Lucy,  (still  playing  with  the  box.)  But  how  comes  the  box 
here,  I  wonder  ? 

Just.  Pshaw !  pshaw !  pshaw !  darling  —  go  to  your  dolls, 
iarling,  and  do  n't  be  positive  —  go  to  your  dolls,  and  do  n't 
ialk  of  what  you  do  n't  understand.  "What  can  you  under- 
stand, I  want  to  know,  of  the  law  ? 

Lucy.  No,  papa,  I  did  n't  mean  about  the  law,  but  about 
the  box ;  because  if  the  man  had  taken  it,  how  could  it  be 
here,  you  know,  papa  ? 

Just.  Eh,  eh,  what  ?  Why,  what  I  say  is  this,  —  that  I 
do  n't  dispute  that  that  box  that  you  hold  in  your  hands  is 
a  box  ;  nay,  for  aught  I  know,  it  may  be  a  tobacco-box  — 
bat  it 's  clear  to  me,  that  if  they  left  the  box,  they  did  not 
take  the  money  —  and  how  do  you  dare,  sir,  to  come  before 
Justice  Headstrong  with  a  lie  in  your  mouth?  —  Recollect 
yourself,  I  '11  give  you  time  to  recollect  yourself. 

[A  paused] 

Just.  Well,  sir,  and  what  do  you  say  now  about  the  box? 
Old  M.  Please  your  worship,  with  submission,  I  can  say 
nothing  but  what  I  said  before. 
18 


274  old    p  o  z . 

Just.  What,  contradict  me  again,  after  J  gave  ye  time  v* 
recollect  yourself !  I  've  done  with  ye,  I  've  done :  contradict 
me  as  often  as  you  please,  but  you  cannot  impose  upon  me ; 
I  defy  you  to  impose  upon  me  ! 

Old  M.  Jmpose ! 

Just.  I  know  the  law  —  1  know  the  law !  and  I  '11  make 
ye-a  know  it  too.  One  hour  I  '11  give  you  to  recollect  your- 
self, and  if  you  do  n't  give  up  this  idle  story,  I  '11 — I  '11  com- 
mit you  as  a  vagrant,  that 's  poz !  go,  go,  for  the  present. 
William,  take  him  into  the  servants'  hall,  do  you  hear? 
What!  take  the  money,  and  leave  the  box!  x '11  never 
believe  it,  that 's  poz  ! 

[Lucy  speaks  to  the  Old  Man  as  Tie  is  going  off. 

Lucy.  Do  n't  be  frightened !  do  n't  be  frightened !  I  mean: 
if  you  tell  the  truth,  never  be  frightened. 

Old  M.  If  I  tell  the  truth  [turning  up  Ms  eyes.) 

[  Old  Man  is  still  held  hack  by  Lucy. 

Lucy.  One  moment  —  answer  me  one  question  —  because 
of  something  that  just  came  into  my  head.  Was  the  box 
shut  fast  when  you  left  it  ? 

Old  M.  No,  miss,  no !  —  open ;  it  was  open,  for  I  could 
not  find  the  lid  in  the  dark ;  my  candle  went  out.  If  I  tell 
the  truth,  oh .'  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV. 

Justice1  s  study  —  the  Justice  is  writing. 

Old  M.  Well !  I  shall  have  but  a  few  days  more  misery 
in  this  world  ! 

Just,  (looks  up.)  Why,  why — why,  then,  why  will  you  be 
so  positive  to  persist  in  a  lie !  Take  the  money  and  leave 
the  box  !  obstinate  blockhead  !  Here,  William  (showing  the 
committal),  take  this  old  gentleman  to  Holdfast,  the  consta* 
ble,  and  give  him  this  warrant. 

Enter  Lucy,  running,  out  of  breath. 
Lucy.  I've  found  it!  I've  found  it!  I've  found  it!  — 


THK    OLD    MAGPIE. 


OLD     POZ. 


275 


Here,  old  man,  here  *s  your  money !  here  it  is  all :  a  guinea 
and  a  half,  and  a  shilling  and  a  sixpence — just  as  he  said, 
papa. 

Enter  Landlady. 

Land.  Oh,  la,  your  worship,  did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ? 

Just.  I've  heard  nothing,  yet,  that  I  can  understand. 
First,  have  you  secured  the  thief,  I  say  ? 

Lucy,  [makes  signs  to  the  Landlady  to  be  silent.)  Yes,  yes, 
yes  !  we  have  him  safe  —  we  have  him  prisoner.  Shall  he 
come  in,  papa? 

Just.  Yes,  child,  by  all  means ;  and  now  I  shall  hear  what 
possessed  him  to  leave  the  box.  I  don't  understand  — 
there's  something  deep  in  all  this  —  I  don't  understand  it 
Now  I  do  desire,  Mrs.  Landlady,  nobody  may  speak  a  single 
word  while  I  am  cross-examining  the  thief. 

[Landlady  puts  her  finger  upon  her  lips  —  everybody 
looks  eagerly  towards  the  door. 

Re-enter  Lucy,  with  a  huge  wicker-cage  in  her  hand,  contain- 
ing a  magpie  —  the  justice  drops  the  committal  out  of  his 
hand. 

Just.  Eh  !  what,  Mrs.  Landlady !  the  old  magpie,  eh ! 

Land.  Ay,  your  worship,  my  old  magpie  —  who  'd  have 
thought  it !  Miss  was  very  clever ;  it  was  she  caught  the 
thief.     Miss  was  very  clever. 

Old  M.  Yery  good  !  very  good ! 

I  Just.  Ay,  darling !  her  father's  own  child !     How  was  it, 

child  ?     Caught  the  thief  with  the  mainour,  eh  ?    Tell  us  all 
—  I  will  hear  all  —  that 's  poz  ! 
Lucy.  Oh,  then !  first,  I  must  tell  you  how  I  came  tc  sus- 
pect Mr.  Magpie.     Do  you  remember,  papa,  that  day  last 
summer  that  I  went  with  you  to  the  bowling-green  at  the 
Saracen's  Head? 
Land.  Oh,  of  all  days  in  the  year — but  I  ask  pardon, 
miss. 
Lucy.  "Well,  that  day  I  heard  my  uncle  and  another  gen 


276  o  l  i    p  o  z . 

tleman  telling  stories  of  magpies  hiding  money ;  and  they 
laid  a  wager  about  this  old  magpie,  and  they  tried  him ; 
they  put  a  shilling  upon  the  table,  and  he  ran  away  with  it 
and  hid  it  —  so  I  thought  that  he  might  do  so  again,  you 
know,  this  time. 

Just.  Right,  right!  It's  a  pity,  child,  you  are  not  upon 
the  bench !  —  ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Lucy.  And  when  I  went  to  his  old  hiding-place,  there  it 
was  —  but  you  see,  papa,  he  did  not  take  the  box. 

Just.  No,  no,  no !  because  the  thief  was  a  magpie.  No 
man  would  have  taken  the  money  and  left  the  box.  You 
see  I  was  right;  no  man  would  have  left  the  box,  eh? 

Lucy.  Certainly  not,  I  suppose:  but  I'm  so  very  glad, 
old  man,  that  you  have  gotten  your  money. 

Just.  "Well,  then,  child,  here,  take  my  purse,  and  add 
that  to  it.  We  were  a  little  too  hasty  with  the  committal, 
eh? 

Land.  Ay,  and  I  fear  I  was  so,  too ;  but  when  one  is 
touched  about  the  credit  of  one's  house,  one 's  apt  to  speak 
warmly. 

Old  M.  Oh,  I'm  the  happiest  old  man  alive!  You  are 
ill  convinced  I  told  you  no  lies.  Say  no  more,  say  no  more 
—  I  am  the  happiest  man!  Miss,  you  have  made  me  the 
happiest  man  alive  !     Bless  you  for  it ! 

Land.  Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you  what  —  I  know  what  I 
think  —  you  must  keep  that  there  magpie,  and  make  a  show 
of  him,  and  I  warrant  he  '11  bring  you  many  an  honest 
penny ;  for  it 's  a  true  story,  and  folks  will  like  to  hear  it,  I 
hopes — 

Just,  [eagerly.)  And,  friend,  do  you  hear?  you'll  dine 
here  to-day  —  you  '11  dine  here  ;  we  have  some  excellent  ale 
I  will  have  you  drink  my  health,  that 's  poz !  eh,  you  '11 
drink  my  health,  won't  you,  eh? 

Old  M.  (bows.)  Oh,  and  the  young  lady's,  if  you  please. 

Just.  Ay,  ay,  drink  her  health  —  she  deserves  it  —  ay, 
drink  my  darling's  health. 


o  i  d    poz.  277 

Land.  And,  please  your  worship,  it's  the  right  time,  I 
believe,  to  speak  of  the  goose-pie  now ;  and  a  charming  pie 
it  is,  and  it 's  on  the  table. 

Will.  And  Mr.  Smack  the  curate,  and  Squire  Solid,  and 
the  doctor,  sir,  are  come,  and  dinner 's  upon  the  table. 

Just.  Then  let  us  say  no  more,  but  do  justice  immediately 
to  the  goose-pie  —  and,  darling,  put  me  in  mind  to  tell  this 
story  after  dinner.  [After  they  go  out,  the  Justice  stops. 

"  Tell  this  story  l"  I  do  n't  know  whether  it  tells  well  for 
me  —  but  I  '11  never  be  positive  any  more  —  that  '8 poz! 


THE    MIMIC 


CHAPTER  I. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Montague  spent  the  summer  of  the  year 
1795  at  Clifton,  with  their  son  Frederick  and  their  two 
daughters  Sophia  and  Marianne.  They  had  taken  much 
care  of  the  education  of  their  children,  nor  were  they 
ever  tempted,  by  any  motive  of  personal  convenience,  or 
temporary  amusement,  to  hazard  the  permanent  happiness 
of  their  pupils. 

Sensible  of  the  extreme  importance  of  early  impressions, 
and  of  the  powerful  influence  of  external  circumstances  in 
forming  the  character  and  the  manners,  they  were  now 
anxious  that  the  variety  of  new  ideas  and  new  objects  which 
should  strike  the  minds  of  their  children,  should  appear  in 
a  just  point  of  view. 

"  Let  children  see,  and  judge  for  themselves,"  is  often 
inconsiderately  said.  "Where  children  see  only  a  part,  they 
cannot  judge  of  the  whole ;  and  from  the  superficial  view 
which  they  can  have  in  short  visits  and  desultory  conversa- 
tion, they  can  form  only  a  false  estimate  of  the  objects  of 
human  happiness,  a  false  notion  of  the  nature  of  society, 
and  false  opinions  of  characters.  For  these  reasons  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Montague  were  particularly  cautious  in  the  choice 
of  their  acquaintance,  as  they  were  well  aware  that  what- 
ever passed  in  conversation  before  their  children  became 
part  of  their  education.  When  they  came  to  Clifton,  they 
wished  to  have  had  a  house  entirely  to  themselves ;  but  aa 
they  came  late  in  the  season,  almost  all  the  lodging-houses 

1278) 


THE     MIMIC.  279 

were  full ;  and  for  a  few  weeks  they  were  obliged  to  remain 
in  a  house  in  which  some  of  the  apartments  were  already 
occupied. 

During  the  first  fortnight  they  scarcely  saw  or  heard  any- 
thing of  one  of  the  families,  who  lodged  on  the  same  floor 
with  them.  An  elderly  Quaker,  with  his  sister  Birtha, 
were  their  silent  neighbours.  The  blooming  complexion 
of  the  lady  had  indeed  attracted  the  attention  of  the  chil- 
dren, as  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face  when  she  was 
getting  into  her  carriage  to  go  out  upon  the  Downs.  They 
could  scarcely  believe  that  she  came  to  the  Wells  on  account 
of  her  health.  Besides  her  blooming  complexion,  the  deli- 
cate white  of  her  garments  had  struck  them  with  admira- 
tion ;  and  they  observed  that  her  brother  carefully  guarded 
these  from  the  wheel  of  the  carriage  as  he  handed  her  in. 
From  this  circumstance,  and  from  the  benevolent  counte- 
nance of  the  old  gentleman,  they  concluded  that  he  was 
very  fond  of  his  sister  —  that  they  were  certainly  very 
happy,  only  they  never  spoke,  and  could  be  seen  but  for  a 
moment. 

Not  so  the  maiden  lady  who  occupied  the  ground-floor  — 
on  the  stairs,  in  the  passages,  at  her  window,  she  was  con- 
tinually visible ;  and  she  seemed  to  possess  the  art  of  being 
present  in  all  these  places  at  once.  Her  voice  was  eternally 
to  be  heard,  and  it  was  not  particularly  melodious.  The 
very  first  day  she  met  Mrs.  Montague's  children  on  the 
stairs,  she  stopped  to  tell  Marianne  that  she  was  a  "  charm- 
ing dear  I"  and  a  "  charming  little  dear  V'  to  kiss  her,  to 
inquire  her  name,  and  to  inform  her  that  her  own  name  was 
"  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle  ;"  a  circumstance  of  which  there  was 
little  danger  of  th^ir  long  remaining  in  ignorance ;  for  in 
the  course  of  one  morning  at  least  twenty  single,  and  as 
many  double,  raps  at  the  door,  were  succeeded  by  vocifera- 
tions of  "Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle's  servant!"  —  "Mrs.  The- 
resa Tattle  at  home?"  — "Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle  not  at 
home  I" 


280  THE     MIMIC. 

No  person  at  the  Wells  was  oftener  at  home  and  abroad 
than  Mrs.  Tattle.  She  had,  as  she  deemed  it,  the  happiness 
to  have  a  most  extensive  acquaintance  residing  at  Clifton. 
She  had  for  years  kept  a  register  of  arrivals.  She  regularly 
consulted  the  subscriptions  to  the  circulating  libraries,  and 
the  lists  at  the  ball  and  the  pump-rooms ;  so  that,  with  a 
memory  unencumbered  with  literature,  and  free  from  all 
domestic  cares,  she  contrived  to  retain  a  most  astonishing 
and  correct  list  of  births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  together 
with  all  the  anecdotes,  amusing,  instructive,  or  scandalous, 
which  are  necessary  to  the  conversation  of  a  water-drinking 
place,  and  essential  to  the  character  of  a  "  very  pleasant 
woman." 

"A  very  pleasant  woman"  Mrs.  Tattle  was  usually 
called ;  and,  conscious  of  her  accomplishments,  she  was 
eager  to  introduce  herself  to  the  acquaintance  of  her  new 
neighbours  ;  having,  with  her  ordinary  expedition,  collected 
from  their  servants,  by  means  of  her  own,  all  that  could  be 
known,  or,  rather,  all  that  could  be  told  about  them.  The 
name  of  Montague,  at  all  events,  she  knew  was  a  good  name, 
and  justified  her  courting  this  acquaintance.  She  courted 
it  first  by  nods,  and  becks,  and  smiles,  at  Marianne,  when- 
ever she  met  her ;  and  Marianne,  who  was  a  very  little  girl, 
began  presently  to  nod  and  smile  in  return,  persuaded  that 
a  lady  who  smiled  so  much  could  not  be  ill-natured.  Be- 
sides, Mrs.  Theresa's  parlour-door  was  sometimes  left  more 
than  half-open,  to  afford  a  view  of  a  green  parrot.  Mari- 
anne sometimes  passed  very  slowly  by  this  door.  One 
morning  it  was  left  quite  wide  open  ;  she  stopped  to  say, 
'*  Pretty  Poll,"  and  immediately  Mra  Tattle  begged  she 
would  do  her  the  honour  to  walk  in  and  see  "  Pretty  Poll ;" 
at  the  same  time  taking  the  liberty  to  offer  her  a  piece  of 
iced  plum -cake. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle  did  herself  the  honour 
to  wait  upon  Mrs.  Montague,  "to  apologize  for  the  liberty 
she  had  taken,  in  inviting  Mrs.  Montague's  charming  Miss 


THE     MIMIC.  281 

Marianne  into  her  apartment  to  see  Pretty  Poll :  and  for 
the  still  greater  liberty  she  had  taken  in  offering  her  a  piece 
of  plumcake,  inconsiderate  creature  that  she  was !  which 
might  possibly  have  disagreed  with  her,  and  which  certainly 
were  liberties  she  never  should  have  been  induced  to  take, 
if  she  had  not  been  unaccountably  bewitched  by  Miss  Mari- 
anne's striking,  though  highly  flattering,  resemblance  to  a 
young  gentleman,  an  officer,  with  whom  she  had  danced, 
she  was  sorry  to  say,  now  nearly  twelve  years  ago,  at  the 

races   in  shire,    of  the   name   of  Montague,    a   most 

respectable  young  man,  and  of  a  most  respectable  family ; 
with  which,  in  a  remote  degree,  she  might  presume  to  say, 
she  herself  was  some  way  connected,  having  the  honour  to 
be  nearly  related  to  the  Joneses  of  Merionethshire,  who  were 
cousins  to  the  Manwairings  of  Bedfordshire,  who  rr  arried 
into  the  family  of  the  Griffithses,  the  eldest  branch  of  //nich, 
she  understood,  had  the  honour  to  be  cousin-germar  >.o  Mr. 
Montague,  —  on  which  account  she  had  been  impa'  'ont  to 
pay  a  visit  so  likely  to  be  productive  of  most  agreea"  {j  con- 
sequences, in  the  acquisition  of  an  acquaintanc  ^hose 
society  must  do  her  infinite  honour." 

Having  thus  happily  accomplished  her  first  vis?  ,  there 
seemed  little  probability  of  escaping  Mrs.  Tattle's  mrther 
acquaintance.  In  the  course  of  the  first  week,  f\e  only 
hinted  to  Mr.  Montague,  that  "  some  people  thor  ^ht  his 
system  of  education  rather  odd ;  that  she  should  be  obliged 
to  him  if  he  would,  some  time  or  other,  when  he  had  nothing 
else  to  do,  just  sit  down  and  make  her  understand  his 
notions,  that  she  might  ha^a  something  to  say  to  her 
acquaintance,  as  she  always  wished  to  have,  when  t  ae  heard 
any  friend  attacked,  or  any  friend's  opinions." 

Mr.  Montague  declining  t"  sit  down  and  make  this  lady 
understand  a  system  of  education  only  to  give  iiei  some- 
thing to  say,  and  showing  unaccountable  indiffere  ice  about 
the  attacks  with  which  he  was  threatened,  Mrs.  "j  ivcle  next 
addressed  herself  to  Mrs  Montague,  prophesying  u  a  most 


282  THE     MIMIC. 

serious  whisper,  "that  the  charming  Miss  Marianne  \*  Mild 
shortly  and  inevitably  grow  quite  crooked,  if  she  were  not 
immediately  provided  with  a  back-board,  a  French  dancing- 
master,  and  a  pair  of  stocks.  This  alarming  whisper  could 
not,  however,  have  a  permanent  effect  upon  Mrs.  Montague's 
understanding,  because,  three  days  afterward,  Mrs.  The- 
resa, upon  the  most  anxious  inspection,  mistook  the  hip  and 
shoulder,  which  should  have  been  the  highest.  This  danger 
vanishing,  Mrs.  Tattle  presently,  with  a  rueful  length  of  face 
and  formal  preface,  "  hesitated  to  assure  Mrs.  Montague 
that  she  was  greatly  distressed  about  her  daughter  Sophy ; 
that  she  was  convinced  her  lungs  were  affected ;  and  that 
she  certainly  ought  to  drink  the  waters  morning  and  even- 
ing ;  and,  above  all  things,  must  keep  one  of  the  patirosa 
lozenges  constantly  in  her  mouth,  and  directly  consult  Dr. 
Cardamum,  the  best  physician  in  the  world,  and  the  person 
she  would  send  for  herself  upon  her  deathbed ;  because,  to 
her  certain  knowledge,  he  had  recovered  a  young  lady,  a 
relation  of  her  own,  after  she  had  lost  one  whole  globe  of 
her  lungs. 

The  medical  opinion  of  a  lady  of  so  much  anatomical 
precision  could  not  have  much  weight ;  nor  was  this  uni- 
versal adviser  more  successful  in  an  attempt  to  introduce  a 
tutor  to  Frederick,  who,  she  apprehended,  must  want  one  to 
perfect  him  in  the  Latin  and  Greek,  and  dead  languages, 
of  which,  she  observed,  it  would  be  impertinent  for  a  woman 
to  talk ;  only  she  might  venture  to  repeat  what  she  had 
heard  said  by  good  authority,  that  a  competency  of  the  dead 
tongues  could  be  had  nowhere  but  at  a  public  school,  or 
else  from  a  private  tutor  who  had  been  abroad  (after  the 
advantage  of  a  classical  education,  finished  in  one  of  the 
universities)  with  a  good  family,  without  which  introduction 
it  was  idle  to  think  of  reaping  solid  advantages  from  any 
continental  tour ;  all  which  requisites  she  could,  from  per- 
sonal knowledge,  aver  concentrated  in  the  gentleman  sha 
had  the  honour  to  recommend,  as  having  been  tutor  to  a 


THE     MIMIC.  283 

young  nobleman,  who  had  now  no  further  occasion  for  him, 
being,  unfortunately  for  himself  and  his  family,  killed  in 
an  untimely  duel. 

All  her  suggestions  being  lost  upon  these  unthinking 
parents,  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle's  powers  were  next  tried  upon 
the  children,  and  presently  her  success  was  apparent.  On 
Sophy,  indeed,  she  could  not  make  any  impression,  though 
she  had  expended  on  her  some  of  her  finest  strokes  of  flat- 
tery. Sophy,  though  very  desirous  of  the  approbation  of 
her  friends,  was  not  very  desirous  to  win  the  favour  of 
strangers.  She  was  about  thirteen,  that  dangerous  age  at 
which  ill-educated  girls,  in  their  anxiety  to  display  their 
accomplishments,  are  apt  to  become  dependent  for  applause 
upon  the  praise  of  every  idle  visiter ;  when,  the  habits  not 
being  formed,  and  the  attention  being  suddenly  turned  to 
dress  and  manners,  girls  are  apt  to  affect  and  imitate,  indis- 
criminately, everything  that  they  fancy  to  be  agreeable. 

Sophy,  whose  taste  had  been  cultivated  at  the  same  time 
with  her  powers  of  reasoning,  was  not  liable  to  fall  into 
these  errors ;  she  found  that  she  could  please  those  whom 
she  wished  to  please,  without  affecting  to  be  anything  but 
^vhat  she  really  was;  and  her  friends  listened  to  what  she 
said,  though  she  never  repeated  the  sentiments,  or  adopted 
the  phrases,  which  she  might  easily  have  caught  from  the 
3onversation  of  those  who  were  older  or  more  fashionable 
than  herself.  This  word  "  fashionable  ;'  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle 
knew  had  usually  a  great  effect  even  at  thirteen ;  but  she 
had  not  observed  that  it  had  much  power  upon  Sophy ;  nor 
were  her  documents  concerning  grace  and  manners  much 
attended  to.  Her  mother  had  taught  Sophy,  that  it  was 
best  to  let  herself  alone,  and  not  to  distort  either  her  person 
or  her  mind  in  acquiring  grimace,  which  nothing  but  the 
fashion  of  the  moment  can  support,  and  which  is  always 
detected  and  despised  by  people  of  real  good  sense  and 
politeness. 

"  Bless  me  I"  said  Mrs.  Tattle  to  herself,  "  if  I.  had  such 


284  THE    MIMIC. 

a  tall  daughter,  and  so  unformed,  before  my  eyes  from 
morning  to-night,  it  would  certainly  break  my  poor  heart. 
Thank  Heaven,  I  am  not  a  mother !  Miss  Marianne  for  me, 
if  I  was !'' 

Miss  Marianne  had  heard  so  often  from  Mrs.  Tattle  that 
she  was  very  charming,  that  she  could  not  help  believing 
it ;  and  from  being  a  very  pleasing,  unaffected  little  girl, 
she  in  a  short  time  grew  so  conceited  that  she  could  neither 
speak,  look,  move,  nor  be  silent,  without  imagining  that 
everybody  was,  or  ought  to  be,  looking  at  her ;  and  when 
Mrs.  Theresa  saw  that  Mrs.  Montague  looked  very  grave 
upon  these  occasions,  she,  to  repair  the  ill  she  had  done, 
would  say,  after  praising  Marianne's  hair  or  her  eyes,  "  0, 
but  little  ladies  should  never  think  about  their  beauty,  you 
know ;  nobody  loves  anybody,  you  know,  for  being  hand- 
some, but  for  being  good."  People  must  think  children  are 
very  silly,  or  else  they  can  never  have  reflected  upon  the 
nature  of  belief  in  their  own  minds,  if  they  imagine  that 
children  will  believe  the  words  that  are  said  to  them  by  way 
of  moral,  when  the  countenance,  manner,  and  every  conco- 
mitant circumstance  tells  them  a  different  tale.  Children 
are  excellent  physiognomists ;  they  quickly  learn  the  uni- 
versal language  of  looks,  and  what  is  said  of  them  always 
makes  a  greater  impression  than  what  is  said  to  them ;  a 
truth  of  which  those  prudent  people  surely  cannot  be  aware 
who  comfort  themselves  and  apologize  to  parents  by  saying, 
"  0  but  I  would  not  say  so  and  so  to  the  child." 

Mrs.  Theresa  had  seldom  said  to  Frederick  Montague, 
"  that  he  had  a  vast  deal  of  drollery,  and  was  a  most  incom- 
parable mimic ;"  but  she  had  said  so  of  him  in  whispers, 
which  magnified  the  sound  to  his  imagination,  if  not  to  his 
ear.  He  was  a  boy  of  much  vivacity,  and  had  considerable 
abilities  ;  but  his  appetite  for  vulgar  praise  had  not  yet  been 
surfeited ;  even  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle's  flattery  pleased  him, 
and  he  exerted  himself  for  her  entertainment  so  much  that 
he  became  quite  a  buffoon.   Instead  of  or  serving  characters 


THE     MIMIC.  285 

and  manners,  that  he  might  judge  of  them  and  form  his 
own,  he  now  watched  every  person  he  saw,  that  he  might 
detect  some  foible,  or  catch  some  singularity  in  their  ges- 
ture or  pronunciation,  which  he  might  successfully  mimic. 

Alarmed  by  the  rapid  progress  of  these  evils,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Montague,  who,  from  the  first  day  that  they  had  been 
honoured  with  Mrs.  Tattle's  visit,  had  begun  to  look  out  for 
new  lodgings,  were  now  extremely  impatient  to  decamp. 
They  were  not  people  who,  from  the  weak  fear  of  offending 
a  silly  acquaintance,  would  hazard  the  happiness  of  their 
family.  They  had  heard  of  a  house  in  the  country  which 
was  likely  to  suit  them,  and  they  determined  to  go  directly 
to  look  at  it.  As  they  were  to  be  absent  all  day,  they  fore- 
saw their  officious  neighbour  would  probably  interfere  with 
their  children.  They  did  not  choose  to  exact  any  promise 
from  them,  which  they  might  be  tempted  to  break,  and 
therefore  they  only  said  at  parting,  "  If  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle 
should  ask  you  to  come  to  her,  do  as  you  think  proper." 

Scarcely  had  Mrs.  Montague's  carriage  gone  out  of  hear- 
ing, when  a  note  was  brought,  directed  to  "  Frederick  Mon- 
tague, junior,  Esq.,"  which  he  immediately  opened,  and  read 
as  follows :  — 

"  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle  presents  her  very  best  compliments 
to  -the  entertaining  Mr.  Frederick  Montague  ;  she  hopes  he 
will  have  the  charity  to  drink  tea  with  her  this  evening,  and 
bring  his  charming  sister  Marianne  with  him,  as  Mrs.  The- 
resa will  be  quite  alone,  with  a  shocking  headache,  and  is 
sensible  her  nerves  are  affected ;  and  Dr.  Cardamum  says, 
that  (especially  in  Mrs.  T.  T.'s  case)  it  is  downright  death 
to  nervous  patients  to  be  alone  an  instant ;  she  therefore 
trusts  Mr.  Frederick  will  not  refuse  to  come  and  make  her 
laugh. 

"  Mrs.  Theresa  has  taken  care  to  provide  a  few  macaroons 
for  her  little  favourite,  who  said  she  was  particularly  fond 
i>f  them  the  other  day. 


286  THE     MIMIC. 

"  Mrs.  Theresa  hopes  they  will  all  come  at  six,  or  before, 
not  forgetting  Miss  Sophy,  if  she  will  condescend  to  be  cf 
the  party." 

At  the  first  reading  of  this  note,  "  the  entertaining  "  Mr. 
Frederick  and  the  "charming"  Miss  Marianne  laughed 
heartily,  and  looked  at  Sophy,  as  if  they  were  afraid  that 
she  should  think  it  possible  they  could  like  such  gross  flat- 
tery ;  but  upon  a  second  perusal,  Marianne  observed  that 
it  certainly  was  good-natured  of  Mrs.  Theresa  to  remember 
the  macaroons ;  and  Frederick  allowed  that  it  was  wrong  to 
laugh  at  the  poor  woman  because  she  had  the  headache. 
Then  twisting  the  note  in  his  fingers,  he  appealed  to  Sophy ; 
"Well,  Sophy,  leave  off  drawing  for  an  instant,  and  tell  us, 
what  answer  can  we  send  ?"  —  "  Can  !  we  can  send  what 
answer  we  please."  —  "  Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Frederick ; 
"  I  would  refuse  if  I  could,  but  we  ought  not  to  do  anything 
rude,  should  we  ?  So  I  think  we  might  as  well  go.  Hey ! 
because  we  could  not  refuse  if  we  would,  I  say." 

"You  have  made  such  confusion,"  replied  Sophy,  "be- 
tween '  could  n't/  and  '  would  n't,'  and  should  n't/  that  I 
can't  understand  you ;  surely  they  are  all  different  things." 

"  Different !  no,"  cried  Frederick ;  "  could,  would,  should, 
might,  and  ought  are  all  the  same  thing  in  the  Latin  gram- 
mar ;  all  of  'em  signs  of  the  potential  mood,  you  know." 

Sophy,  whose  powers  of  reasoning  were  not  to  be  con- 
founded even  by  quotations  from  the  Latin  grammar,  looked 
up  soberly  from  her  drawing,  and  answered,  "  That  very 
likely  those  words  might  be  signs  of  the  same  thing  in  the 
Latin  grammar,  but  that  she  believed  they  meant  perfectly 
different  things  in  real  life." 

"  That's  just  as  people  please,"  said  her  sophistical  bro- 
ther ;  "  you  know  words  mean  nothing  in  themselves.  If  I 
choose  to  call  my  hat  my  cadwallader,  you  would  under- 
stand me  just  as  well,  after  I  had  once  explained  it  to  you, 
that  by  cadwallader  I  meant  this  black  thing  that  I  put 


THE     MIMIC.  287 

upon  my  h3ad ;  cadwallader  and  hat  would  then  be  just  the 
same  thing  to  you." 

"  Then  why  have  you  two  words  for  the  same  thing?" 
said  Sophy ;  "  and  what  has  this  to  do  with  could  and 
should  ?     You  wanted  to  prove — " 

"I  wanted  to  prove,"  interrupted  Frederick,  "that  it's 
not  worth  while  to  dispute  for  two  hours  about  two  words. 
Do  keep  to  the  point,  Sophy,  and  do  n't  dispute  with  me." 

"  I  was  not  disputing,  I  was  reasoning." 

"  "Well,  reasoning  or  disputing.  Women  have  no  business 
to  do  either,  for  how  should  they  know  how  to  chop  logic 
like  men  ?" 

At  this  contemptuous  sarcasm  upon  her  sex,  Sophy's 
tolour  rose.  "  There !"  cried  Frederick,  exulting,  "  now 
we  shall  see  a  philosopheress  in  a  passion ;  I'd  give  sixpence, 
half-price  for  a  harlequin  entertainment,  to  see  Sophy  in  a 
passion.  Now,  Marianne,  look  at  her  brush  dabbling  so 
fast  in  the  water !" 

Sophy,  who  could  not  easily  bear  to  be  laughed  at,  with 
some  little  indignation  said,  "  Brother,  I  wish — " 

"  There !  there  !"  cried  Frederick,  pointing  to  the  colour 
which  rose  in  her  cheek  almost  to  her  temples ;  "  rising ! 
rising !  rising !  Look  at  the  thermometer.  Blood  heat ! 
Blood !     Fever  heat !     Boiling-water  heat !     Marianne." 

"  Then,"  said  Sophy,  smiling,  "  you  should  stand  a  little 
farther  off,  both  of  you ;  leave  the  thermometer  to  itself  a 
little  while ;  give  it  time  to  cool.  It  will  come  down  to 
temperate  by  the  time  you  look  again." 

"  Oh,  brother,"  cried  Marianne,  "  she 's  so  good-humoured, 
do  n't  tease  her  any  more  ;  and  do  n't  draw  heads  upon  her 
paper  ;  and  do  n't  stretch  her  rubber  out ;  and  do  n't  let  us 
dirty  any  more  of  her  brushes.  See  !  the  sides  of  her  tum- 
bler are  all  manner  of  colours." 

"  Oh,  I  only  mixed  red,  blue,  green,  and  yellow,  to  show 
you,  Marianne,  that  all  colours  mixed  together  make  white. 
But    she    is   temperate    now,   and  I  won't    plague  her; 


288  THE     MIMIC. 

she  shall  chop  logic  if  she  likes  it,  though  she  is  a  wo- 
man." 

"But  that's  not  fair,  brother,"  said  Marianne,  "to  say 
'  woman '  in  that  way.  I  'm  sure  Sophy  found  out  how  to 
tie  that  difficult  knot,  which  papa  showed  to  us  yesterday, 
long  before  you  did,  though  you  are  a  man." 

"  Not  long,"  said  Frederick ;  "  besides,  that  was  only  a 
conjuring  trick." 

"  It  was  very  ingenious,  though,"  said  Marianne,  "  and 
papa  said  so ;  and,  besides,  she  understood  the  rule  of  three, 
which  was  no  conjuring  trick,  better  than  you  did,  though 
she  is  a  woman  ;  and  she  may  reason  too,  mamma  says." 

"Very  well,  let  her  reason  away,"  said  the  provoking 
wit ;  "  all  I  have  to  say  is,  she  '11  never  be  able  to  make  a 
pudding."  —  "Why  not,  pray,  brother?"  inquired  Sophy, 
looking  up  again  very  gravely.  —  "Why,  you  know  papa 
himself,  the  other  day  at  dinner,  said,  that  that  woman  who 
talks  Greek  and  Latin  as  well  as  I  do  is  a  fool  after  all ;  and 
that  she  had  better  have  learned  something  useful;  and 
Mrs.  Tattle  said  she  'd  answer  for  it  she  did  not  know  how 
to  make  a  pudding." 

"  Well,  but  I  am  not  talking  Greek  and  Latin,  am  I?" 

"  No,  but  you  're  drawing,  and  that 's  the  same  thing." 

"  The  same  thing !  oh,  Frederick !"  said  little  Marianne, 
laughing. 

"  You  may  laugh,  but  I  say  it  is  the  same  sort  of  thing. 
Women  that  are  always  drawing  and  reasoning  never  know 
how  to  make  puddings ;  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle  said  so,  when 
I  showed  her  Sophy's  beautiful  drawing  yesterday." 

"Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle  might  say  so,"  replied  Sophy, 
calmly,  "  but  I  do  not  perceive  the  reason,  brother,  why 
drawing  should  prevent  me  from  learning  how  to  make  a 
pudding." 

"  Well,  I  say  you  '11  never  learn  to  make  a  good  pudding." 

"  I  have  learned,"  continued  Sophy,  who  was  mixing  her 
colours,  "to  mix  such  and  such  colours  together  to  make 


THE     MIMIC.  289 

the  colour  that  I  want ;  and  why  should  I  not  be  able  to 
mix  flour,  and  butter  and  sugar,  and  egg  together,  to  make 
the  taste  that  I  want  ?" 

"  Oh,  but  mixing  will  never  do,  unless  you  know  the 
quantities,  like  a  cook  ;  and  you  would  never  learn  the  right 
quantities." 

"How  did  the  cook  learn  them?  cannot  I  learn  them  as 
she  did?" 

"  Yes,  but  you  'd  never  do  it  exactly,  and  mind  the  spoon- 
fulls  right,  by  the  receipt,  like  a  cook,  exactly." 

"  Indeed !  indeed  !  but  she  would  !"  cried  Marianne, 
eagerly;  "and  a  great  deal  more  exactly;  for  mamma  has 
taught  her  to  weigh  and  measure  things  very  carefully ;  and 
when  I  was  ill,  she  always  weighed  my  bark  so  nicely,  and 
dropped  my  drops  so  carefully  —  not  like  the  cook.  When 
mamma  took  me  down  to  see  her  make  a  cake  once,  I  saw 
her  spoonfuls,  and  her  ounces,  and  herhandfuls  ;  she  dashed 
and  splashed  without  minding  exactness,  or  the  receipt,  or 
anything.  I'm  sure  Sophy  would  make  a  much  better  pud- 
ding, if  exactness  only  is  wanting." 

"  Well,  granting  that  she  could  make  the  best  pudding  in 
the  whole  world,  what  does  that  signify?  I  say  she  never 
would,  so  it  comes  to  the  same  thing." 

"  Never  would  !  how  can  you  tell  that,  brother  ?" 

"  Why,  now  look  at  her,  with  her  books,  and  her  draw 
ings,  and  all  this  apparatus ;  do  you  think  she  would  ever 
jump  up,  with  all  her  nicety  too,  and  put  by  all  these 
things,  to  go  down  into  the  greasy  kitchen,  and  plump  up 
to  the  elbows  in  suet,  like  a  cook,  for  a  plum-pudding  ?" 

"  I  need  not  plump  up  to  the  elbows,  brother,"  said  Sophy, 
Bmiling  ;  "  nor  is  it  necessary  that  I  should  be  a  cook  ;  but 
if  it  were  necessary,  I  hope  I  should  be  able  to  make  a  pud- 
ding." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !"  cried  Marianne,  warmly,  "  she  would 
jump  up  and  put  by  all  her  things  in  a  minute,  if  it  was 
necessary,  and  run  down-stairs  and  u  p  again  like  lightning, 
19 


290  THE     MIMIC. 

or  do  anything  that  was  ever  so  disagreeable  to  her,  even 
about  the  suet,  with  all  her  nicety,  brother,  I  assure  you,  as 
she  used  to  do  anything,  everything  for  me  when  I  was  ill 
last  winter.  Oh,  brother,  she  can  do  anything ;  and  she 
could  make  the  best  plum-pudding  in  the  whole  world,  I  am 
sure,  in  a  minute,  if  it  was  necessary/' 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  knock  at  the  door  from  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle's  servant 
recalled  Marianne  to  the  business  of  the  day. 

"  There/'  said  Frederick,  "  we  have  sent  no  answer  all 
this  time.     It's  necessary  to  think  of  that  in  a  minute." 

The  servant  came  with  his  mistress's  compliments,  to  let 
the  young  ladies  and  Mr.  Frederick  know  that  she  was  wait- 
ing tea  for  them. 

"  Waiting  !  then  we  must  go,"  said  Frederick. 

The  servant  opened  the  door  wider,  to  let  him  pass,  and 
Marianne  thought  she  must  follow  her  brother;  so  they 
went  down-stairs  together,  while  Sophy  gave  her  own  mes- 
sage to  the  servant,  and  quietly  staid  at  her  usual  occupa- 
tions. 

Mrs.  Tattle  was  seated  at  her  tea-table,  with  a  large  plate 
of  macaroons  beside  her,  when  Frederick  and  Marianne 
entered.  She  was  "  delighted "  they  were  come,  and 
"grieved"  not  to  see  Miss  Sophy  along  with  them.  Mari- 
anne coloured  a  little  ;  for  though  she  had  precipitately  fol- 
lowed her  brother,  and  though  he  had  quieted  her  conscience 
for  a  moment,  by  saying,  "  You  know  papa  and  mamma  told 
us  to  do  what  we  thought  best,"  yet  she  did  not  feel  quite 
pleased  with  herself;  and  it  was  not  till  after  Mrs.  Theresa 
had  exhausted  all  her  compliments  and  half  her  macaroons, 
that  she  could  restore  her  spirits  to  their  usual  height. 

"Come,  Mr.  Frederick,"  said  she,  after  tea,  "you  pr> 


THE     MIMIC.  291 

inised  to  make  me  laugh ;  and  nobody  can  make  me  laugh 
bo  well  as  yourself." 

"  0,  brother,"  said  Marianne,  "  show  Mrs.  Theresa  Dr. 
Carbuncle  eating  his  dinner,  and  I  '11  be  Mrs.  Carbuncle/' 

Marianne.  Now,  my  dear,  what  shall  I  help  you  to  ? 

Frederick.  My  dear !  she  never  calls  him  my  dear,  you 
know,  but  always  doctor. 

Mar.  Well,  then,  —  doctor,  what  will  you  eat  to-day  ? 

Fred.  Eat,  madam  !  eat !  —  nothing !  nothing  !  —  I  do  n't 
see  anything  here  that  I  can  eat,  ma'am. 

Mar.  Here 's  eels,  sir ;  let  me  help  you  to  some  eel  — 
stewed  eel,  sir  —  you  used  to  be  fond  of  stewed  eel. 

Fred.  Used,  ma'am,  used  !  But  I'm  sick  of  stewed  eels. 
You  would  tire  one  of  anything.  Am  I  to  see  nothing  but 
eels  ?  —  and  what 's  this  at  the  bottom  ? 

Mar.  Mutton,  doctor,  roast  mutton ;  if  you  '11  be  so  good 
as  to  cut  it. 

Fred.  Cut  it,  ma'am  !  —  I  can't  cut  it,  I  say  :  it 's  as  hard 
as  a  deal  board.  You  might  as  well  tell  me  to  cut  the  table, 
ma'am.  Mutton,  indeed!  —  not  a  bit  of  fat.  Roast  mut- 
ton, indeed  !  —  not  a  drop  of  gravy.  Mutton,  truly  !  —  quite 
a  cinder.  I  '11  have  none  of  it.  Here,  take  it  away ;  take 
it  down-stairs  to  the  cook.  It 's  a  very  hard  case,  Mrs.  Car- 
buncle, that  I  can  never  have  a  bit  of  anything  that  I  can 
eat  at  my  own  table.  Mrs.  Carbuncle,  since  I  was  married, 
ma'am,  —  I,  that  am  the  easiest  man  in  the  whole  world  to 
please  about  my  dinner.  It 's  really  very  extraordinary, 
Mrs.  Carbuncle  !  What  have  you  at  that  corner  there,  under 
the  cover? 

Mar.  Patties,  sir  —  oyster-patties. 

Fred.  Patties,  ma'am !  kbkshaws !  I  hate  kickshaws. 
Not  worth  putting  under  a  cover,  ma'am.  And  why  have 
not  you  glass  covers,  that  one  may  see  one's  dinner  before 
one,  before  it  grows  cold  with  asking  questions,  Mrs.  Car- 
buncle, and  lifting  up  covers?  But  nobody  has  any  senne; 
and  I  see  no  water-plates  anywhere  lately. 


292  THE     MIMIC. 

Mar.  Do,  pray,  doctor,  let  me  help  you  to  a  bit  of  cnicken 
before  it  gets  cold,  my  dear. 

Fred,  {aside.)  "My  dear"  again,  Marianne! 

Mar.  Yes,  brother,  because  she  is  frightened,  you  know ; 
and  Mrs.  Carbuncle  always  says  "my  dear"  to  him  when 
she 's  frightened,  and  looks  so  pale  from  side  to  side,  and 
sometimes  she  cries  before  dinner 's  done,  and  then  all  the 
company  are  quite  silent,  and  do  n't  know  what  to  do. 

"  Oh,  such  a  little  creature  !  to  have  so  much  sense,  too !" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Theresa,  with  rapture.  "  Mr.  Frederick, 
you  '11  make  me  die  with  laughing !  Pray,  go  on,  Dr.  Car- 
buncle." 

Fred.  Well,  ma'am,  then  if  I  must  eat  something,  send 
me  a  bit  of  fowl,  —  a  leg  and  wing,  the  liver-wing,  and  a 
bit  of  the  breast ;  oyster-sauce,  and  a  slice  of  that  ham,  if 
you  please,  ma'am. 

[Dr.  Carbuncle  eats  voraciously,  with  Ms  head  down  to 
his  plate,  and,  dropping  tlu.  sauce,  he  buttons  up 
his  coat  tight  across  the  breast. 

Fred.  Here!  —  a  plate,  knife,  and  fork  —  bit  o*  bread  — 
a  glass  of  Dorchester  ale  ! 

"  Oh,  admirable  I"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tattle,  clapping  her 
hands. 

"  Now,  brother,  suppose  that  it  is  after  dinner,"  said  Ma- 
rianne, "  and  show  us  how  the  doctor  goes  to  sleep." 

Frederick  threw  himself  back  in  an  arm-chair,  leaning 
his  head  back,  with  his  mouth  open,  snoring ;  nodded  from 
time  to  time,  crossed  and  uncrossed  his  legs,  tried  to  awaken 
himself  by  twitching  his  wig,  settling  his  collar,  blowing 
his  nose,  and  rapping  on  the  lid  of  his  snuff-box. 

All  which  infinitely  diverted  Mrs.  Tattle,  who,  when  she 
could  stop  herself  from  laughing,  declared  "  it  made  her 
sigh,  too,  to  think  of  the  life  poor  Mrs.  Carbuncle  led  wit\ 
that  man,  and  all  for  nothing,  too ;  for  her  jointure  was 
nothing  —  next  to  nothing,  though  a  great  thing,  to  be  sure, 
her  friends  thought,  for  her,  when  she  was  only  Sally  Ridge- 


THE     MIMIC.  293 

way,  before  she  was  married.  Such  a  wife  as  she  makes," 
continued  Mrs.  Theresa,  lifting  up  her  hands  and  eyes  to 
heaven,  "  and  so  much  as  she  has  gone  through,  the  brute 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  if  he  does  not  leave  her 
something  extraordinary  in  his  will ;  for,  turn  it  which  way 
«he  may,  she  can  never  keep  a  carriage,  or  live  like  anybody 
else,  on  her  jointure,  after  all,  she  tells  me,  poor  soul !  A 
sad'prospect  after  her  husband's  death  to  look  forward  to, 
instead  of  being  comfortable,  as  her  friends  expected ;  and 
she,  poor  young  thing,  knowing  no  better  when  they  mar- 
ried her !  People  should  look  into  these  things  beforehand, 
or  never  marry  at  all,  I  say,  Miss  Marianne." 

Miss  Marianne,  who  did  not  clearly  comprehend  this 
affair  of  the  jointure,  or  the  reason  why  Mrs.  Carbuncle 
would  be  so  unhappy  after  her  husband's  death,  turned  to 
Frederick,  who  was  at  that  instant  studying  Mrs.  Theresa 
as  a  future  character  to  mimic.  "  Brother,"  said  Marianne, 
"  now  sing  an  Italian  song  for  us  like  Miss  Croker.  Pray, 
Miss  Croker,  favour  us  with  a  song.  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle 
has  never  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you  sing  —  she's 
quite  impatient  to  hear  you  sing." 

"Yes,  indeed  I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Theresa. 

Frederick  put  his  hands  before  him  affectedly:  "Oh, 
indeed,  ma'am  !  indeed,  ladies !  I  really  am  so  hoarse,  it 
distresses  me  so  to  be  pressed  to  sing ;  besides,  upon  my 
word,  I  have  quite  left  off  singing.  I  've  never  sung  once, 
3xcept  for  very  particular  people,  this  winter." 

Mar.  But  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle  is  a  very  particular  person ; 
I  'm  sure  you  '11  sing  for  her ! 

Fred.  Certainly,  ma'am,  I'll  allow  you  use  a  powerful 
argument ;  but  I  assure  you,  now,  I  would  do  my  best  to 
oblige  you,  but  I  absolutely  have  forgotten  all  my  English 
songs.  Nobody  hears  anything  but  Italian  now,  and  I  have 
been  so  giddy  as  to  leave  my  Italian  music  behind  me. 
Besides,  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  hazard  myself  without 
an  accompaniment. 


294  THE     MIMIC. 

Mar.  0  try,  Miss  Croker,  for  once. 

[Frederick  sings,  after  much  preluding. 

Violante,  in  the  pantry, 
gnawing  of  a  mutton-bone  : 

How  she  gnaw'd  it ! 

How  she  elaw'd  it ! 
When  she  found  herself  alone ! 

i4  Charming  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tattle ;  "  so  like  Misa 
Croker!  I'm  sure  I  shall  think  of  you,  Mr.  Frederick, 
when  I  hear  her  asked  to  sing  again.  Her  voice,  however, 
introduces  her  to  very  pleasant  parties,  and  she 's  a  girl 
that's  very  much  taken  notice  of,  and  I  do  n't  doubt  will  go 
off  vastly  well.  She 's  a  particular  favourite  of  mine,  you 
must  know ;  and  I  mean  to  do  her  a  piece  of  service  the 
first  opportunity,  by  saying  something  or  other,  that  shall 
go  round  to  her  relations  in  Northumberland,  and  make 
them  do  something  for  her ;  as  well  they  may,  for  they  're 
all  rolling  in  gold,  and  won't  give  her  a  penny/' 

Mar.  Now,  brother,  read  the  newspaper  like  Counsellor 
Puff. 

"  0,  pray  do,  Mr.  Frederick,  for  F  declare  I  admire  you 
of  all  things !  you  are  quite  yourself  to-night.  Here 's  a 
newspaper,  sir.  Pray  let  us  have  Counsellor  Puff.  It 's  not 
late." 

[Frederick  reads  in  a  pompous  voice. 

"  As  a  delicate  white  hand  has  ever  been  deemed  a  dis- 
tinguishing ornament  in  either  sex,  Messrs.  Valiant  and  "Wise 
conceive  it  to  be  their  duty  to  take  the  earliest  opportunity 
to  advertise  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  Great  Britain  in  gene- 
ral, and  their  friends  in  particular,  that  they  have  now  ready 
for  sale,  as  usual,  at  the  Hippocrates'  Head,  a  fresh  assort- 
ment of  new-invented,  much-admired  primrose-soap.  To 
nrevent  impositions  and  counterfeits,  the  public  are  re- 
quested to  take  notice,  that  the  only  genuine  primrose-soap 
'«  stamped  on  the  outside,  '  Valiant  and  Wise.' 


THE     MIMIC.  295 

"  Oli,  you  most  incomparable  mimic!  'tis  absolutely  the 

counsellor  himself.  I  absolutely  must  show  you,  some  day, 
to  my  friend  Lady  Battersby ;  you  1  absolutely  make  her 
die  with  laughing ;  and  she  'd  quite  adore  you/'  said  Mrs. 
Theresa,  who  was  well  aware  that  every  pause  must  be  filled 
with  flattery.  "  Pray  go  on,  pray  go  on :  I  shall  never  be 
tired,  if  I  were  to  sit  looking  at  you  these  hundred  years." 

Stimulated  by  these  plaudits,  Frederick  proceeded  to  show 
how  Colonel  Epaulette  blew  his  nose,  flourished  his  cambric 
handkerchief,  bowed  to  Lady  Di.  Periwinkle,  and  admired 
her  work,  saying,  "  Done  by  no  hands,  as  you  may  guess, 
but  those  of  Fairly  Fair."  While  Lady  Di.,  he  observed, 
simpered  so  prettily,  and  took  herself  so  quietly  for  Fairly 
Fair,  not  pereeiving  that  the  colonel  was  admiring  his  own 
nails  all  the  while. 

Next  to  Colonel  Epaulette,  Frederick,  at  Marianne's  par- 
ticular desire,  came  into  the  room  like  Sir  Charles  Slang. 

"  Very  well,  brother,"  cried  she,  "  your  hand  down  to  the 
very  bottom  of  your  pocket,  and  your  other  shoulder  up  to 
your  ear ;  but  you  are  not  quite  wooden  enough,  and  you 
should  walk  as  if  your  hip  was  out  of  joint.  There,  now, 
Mrs.  Tattle,  are  not  those  good  eyes  ?  They  stare  so  like 
his,  without  seeming  to  see  anything  all  the  while." 

"  Excellent !  admirable  !  Mr.  Frederick.  I  must  say,  you 
are  the  best  mimic  of  your  age  I  ever  saw,  and  I  'm  sure 
Lady  Battersby  will  think  so  too.  That  is  Sir  Charles  to 
the  very  life.  But,  with  all  that,  you  must  know,  he  'a  a 
mighty  pleasant,  fashionable  young  man,  when  you  come 
to  know  him,  and  has  a  great  deal  of  sense  under  all  that, 
and  is  of  a  very  good  family,  the  Slangs,  you  know.  Sir 
Charles  will  come  into  a  fine  fortune  himself  next  year,  if 
ha  can  keep  clear  of  gambling,  which.  I  hear,  is  his  foible, 
poor  young  man !  Pray  go  on ;  I  interrupt  you,  Mr.  Frede- 
rick." 

"  Now,  brother,"  said  Marianne. 

"  Nc,  Marianne,  I  can  do  no  more ;  I  'm  quite  tired,  and 


296  THE     MIMIC. 

I  will  do  no  more,"  said  Frederick,  stretching  himself  at 
full  length  upon  a  sofa. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  laughter,  and  while  the  voice  of  flat- 
tery yet  sounded  in  his  ear,  Frederick  felt  sad,  displeased 
with  himself,  and  disgusted  with  Mrs.  Theresa. 

"  What  a  deep  sigh  was  there  \"  said  Mrs.  Theresa ; 
"what  can  make  you  sigh  so  bitterly?  You,  who  make 
everybody  else  laugh.     0,  such  another  sigh  again !" 

"  Marianne,"  cried  Frederick,  "  do  you  remember  the  man 
in  the  mask  ?" 

"What  man  in  the  mask,  brother?" 

"  The  man  —  the  actor  —  the  buffoon,  that  my  father  told 
us  of,  w'10  used  to  cry  behind  the  mask,  that  made  every- 
body else  laugh." 

"  Cry !  bless  me,"  said  Mrs.  Theresa,  "  mighty  odd !  very 
extraordinary  !  but  one  can't  be  surprised  at  meeting  with 
extraordinary  characters  among  that  race  of  people,  actors 
by  profession,  you  know  ;  who  are  brought  up  from  the  egg 
to  make  their  fortune,  or  at  least  their  bread,  by  their  oddi- 
ties. But,  my  dear  Mr.  Frederick,  you  are  quite  pale,  quite 
exhausted  —  no  wonder  —  what  will  you  have?  a  glass  of 
cowslip-wine  ?" 

"  0  no,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Frederick. 

"  0  yes ;  indeed  you  must  not  leave  me  without  taking 
something ;  and  Miss  Marianne  must  have  another  maca- 
roon ;  I  insist  upon  it,"  said  Mrs.  Theresa,  ringing  the  bell. 
"  It  is  not  late,  and  my  man  Christopher  will  bring  up  the 
cowslip-wine  in  a  minute." 

"But  Sophy!  —  and  papa  and  mamma,  you  know,  will 
come  home  just  now,"  said  Marianne. 

"  0,  Miss  Sophy  has  her  books  and  drawings ;  you  know 
she 's  never  afraid  of  being  alone  ;  besides,  to-night  it  was 
her  own  choice ;  and  as  to  your  papa  and  mamma,  they 
won't  be  home  to-night,  I  'm  pretty  sure  ;  for  a  gentleman, 
who  had  it  from  their  own  authority,  told  me  where  they 
were  going,  which  is  farther  off  than  they  think,  but  they 


THE     MIMIC.  297 

did  not  consult  me ;  and  I  fancy  they  '11  be  obliged  to  sleep 
out  —  so  you  need  not  be  in  a  hurry  about  them.  We'll 
have  candles." 

The  door  opened  just  as  Mrs.  Tattle  was  going  to  ring  the 
bell  again  for  candles,  and  the  cowslip-wine.  "  Christopher ! 
Christopher  V  said  Mrs.  Theresa,  who  was  standing  at  the 
fire,  with  her  back  to  the  door  when  it  opened,  "  Christo- 
pher !  pray  bring  —  do  you  hear?"  but  no  Christopher 
answered ;  and  upon  turning  round,  Mrs.  Tattle,  instead  of 
Christopher,  beheld  two  little  black  figures,  which  stood 
perfectly  still  and  silent.  It  was  so  dark  that  their  forms 
could  scarcely  be  discerned. 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven !  who  and  what  may  you  be  ? 
Speak,  I  conjure  you  !     What  are  ye?" 

"  The  chimney-sweepers,  ma'am,  an  please  your  lady- 
ship." 

"  Chimney-sweepers  !"  repeated  Frederick  and  Marianne, 
bursting  out  a-laughing. 

"  Chimney-sweepers  I"  repeated  Mrs.  Theresa,  provoked 
at  the  recollection  of  her  late  solemn  address  to  them. 
"  Chimney-sweepers !  and  could  not  you  say  so  a  little 
sooner  ?  And  pray  what  brings  you  here,  gentlemen,  at 
this  time  of  night  1" 

"  The  bell  rang,  ma'am,"  answered  the  squeaking  voice. 

"  The  bell  rang !  yes,  for  Christopher.  The  boy 's  mad, 
or  drunk." 

"  Ma'am,"  said  the  tallest  of  the  chimney-sweepers,  who 
had  not  yet  spoken,  and  who  now  began  in  a  very  blunt 
manner ;  "  ma'am,  your  brother  desired  us  to  come  up  when 
the  bell  rang ;  so  we  did." 

"  My  brother !  I  have  no  brother,  dunce,"  said  Mrs.  The- 
resa. 

"Mr.  Eden,  madam." 

"  0,  ho !"  said  Mrs.  Tattle,  in  a  more  complacent  tone, 
■'  the  boy  takes  me  for  Miss  Birtha  Eden,  I  perceive  ;"  and, 
flattered  to  be  taken  in  the  dark  by  a  chimney-sweeper  foi 


298  THE     MIMIC. 

a  young  and  handsome  lady,  Mrs.  Theresa  laughed,  and 
informed  him,  "  that  they  had  mistaken  the  room ;  that 
they  must  go  up  another  pair  of  stairs,  and  turn  to  the  left." 

The  chimney-sweeper  with  the  squeaking  voice  bowed, 
thanked  her  ladyship  for  this  information,  said,  "Good- 
night to  ye,  quality,"  and  they  both  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Stay,"  said  Mrs.  Tattle,  whose  curiosity  was  excited ; 
"  what  can  the  Edens  want  with  chimney-sweepers  at  this 
time  o'  the  night,  I  wonder?  Christopher,  did  you  hear 
anything  about  it  ?"  said  the  lady  to  her  footman,  who  was 
now  lighting  the  candles. 

"  Upon  my  word,  ma'am,"  said  the  servant,  "  I  can't  say, 
but  I  '11  step  down  below  and  inquire.  I  heard  them  talk- 
ing about  it  in  the  kitchen,  but  I  only  got  a  word  here  and 
there,  for  I  was  hunting  for  the  snuff-dish ;  as  I  knew  it 
must  be  for  candles,  when  I  heard  the  bell  ring,  ma'am  ;  so 
I  thought  to  find  the  snuff-dish  before  I  answered  the  bell ; 
for  I  knew  it  must  be  for  candles  you  rang.  But,  if  you 
please,  I  '11  step  down  now,  ma'am,  and  see  about  the  chim- 
ney-sweeps." 

"Yes,  step  down,  do;  and,  Christopher,  bring  up  the 
cowslip-wine,  and  some  more  macaroons  for  my  little  Mari- 
anne." 

Marianne  withdrew  rather  coldly  from  a  kiss  which  Mrs. 
Tattle  was  going  to  give  her ;  for  she  was  somewhat  sur- 
prised at  the  familiarity  with  which  this  lady  talked  to  her 
footman.  She  had  not  been  used  to  these  manners  in  her 
father  and  mother,  and  she  did  not  like  them. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Tattle  to  Christopher,  who  had  now 
returned,  "  what  is  the  news  ?" 

"  Ma'am,  the  little  fellow  with  the  squeaking  voice  has 
been  telling  me  the  whole  story.  The  other  morning, 
ma'am,  early,  he  and  the  other  were  down  the  hill,  sweep- 
ing in  Paradise-row :  those  chimneys,  they  say,  are  difficult ; 
and  the  square  fellow,  ma'am,  the  biggesi  of  the  two  boys, 
got  wedged  in  the  chimney ;  the  other  little  fellow  was  up 


THE     MIMIC.  299 

at  the  top  at  the  time,  and  he  heard  the  cry,  but,  in  his 
fright  and  all,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do,  ma'am  ;  for  he 
looked  about  from  the  top  of  the  chimney,  and  not  a  soul 
could  he  see  stirring,  but  a  few  that  he  could  not  make 
mind  his  screech ;  the  boy  within  almost  stifling,  too.  So 
he  screeched  and  screeched,  all  he  could,  and  by  the  greatest 
chance  in  life,  ma'am,  old  Mr.  Eden  was  just  going  down 
the  hill  to  fetch  his  morning  walk." 

"  Ay,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Theresa,  "  friend  Ephraim  is  one 
of  your  early  risers." 

"  Well,"  said  Marianne,  impatiently. 

"  So,  ma'am,  hearing  the  screech,  he  turns  and  sees  the 
sweep,  and  the  moment  he  understands  the  matter — " 

"  I  'm  sure  he  must  have  taken  some  time  to  understand 
it,"  interposed  Mrs.  Tattle,  "  for  he 's  the  slowest  creature 
breathing,  and  the  deafest  in  company.  Go  on,  Christopher. 
So  the  sweep  did  make  him  hear  ?" 

"  So  he  says,  ma'am.  And  so  the  old  gentleman  went  in, 
and  pulled  the  boy  out  of  the  chimney,  with  much  ado, 
ma'am." 

"  Bless  me !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Theresa ;  "  but  did  old  Eden 
go  up  the  chimney  himself  after  the  boy,  wig  and  all  ?" 

"Why,  ma'am,"  said  Christopher,  with  a  look  of  great 
delight,  "  that  was  all  as  one  as  the  very  'dentical  words  I 
put  to  the  boy  myself,  when  he  telled  me  his  story.  But, 
ma'am,  that  was  what  I  could  n't  get  out  of  him,  neither, 
rightly,  for  he  is  a  churl  —  the  big  boy  that  was  stuck  in 
the  chimney,  I  mean ;  for  when  I  put  the  question  to  him 
about  the  wig,  laughing-like,  he  would  n't  take  it  laughing- 
like  at  all,  but  would  only  make  answer  to  us  like  a  bear, 
*  He  saved  my  life,  that 's  all  I  know ;'  and  this  over  again, 
ma'am,  to  all  the  kitchen  round,  that  cross-questioned  him. 
So  when  I  finds  him  so  stupid  and  ill-mannered  like  (for  I 
offered  him  a  shilling,  ma'am,  myself,  to  tell  about  the  wig), 
but  he  put  it  back  in  a  ways  that  did  not  become  such  as 
he  to  no  lady's  butler,  ma'am ;  whereupon  I  turns  to  the 


300  THE     MIMIC. 

slim  fellow,  and  he 's  smarterer  and  more  mannerly,  ma'am, 
with  a  tongue  in  his  head  for  his  betters,  but  he  could  not 
resolve  me  my  question  neither,  for  he  was  up  at  the  top  of 
the  chimney  the  best  part  o'  the  time ;  and  when  he  came 
down,  Mr.  Eden  had  his  wig  on,  but  had  his  arm  all  bare 
and  bloody,  ma'am." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Eden  I"  exclaimed  Marianne. 

"Oh,  miss,"  continued  the  servant,  "and  the  chimney- 
sweep himself  was  so  bruised,  and  must  have  been  killed." 

"  Well,  well !  but  he  's  alive  now ;  go  on  with  your  story, 
Christopher,"  says  Mrs.  T.  "  Chimney-sweepers  get  wedged 
in  chimneys  every  day ;  it 's  part  of  their  trade,  and  it 's  a 
happy  thing  when  they  come  off  with  a  few  bruises.  To  be 
sure,"  added  she,  observing  that  both  Frederick  and  Mari- 
anne look  displeased  at  this  speech,  "  to  be  sure,  if  one  may 
believe  this  story,  there  was  some  real  danger." 

"Real  danger!  yes,  indeed,"  said  Marianne;  "and  I'm 
sure  I  think  Mr.  Eden  was  very  good." 

"  Certainly,  it  was  a  most  commendable  action,  and  quite 
providential ;  so  I  shall  take  an  opportunity  of  saying,  when 
I  tell  the  story  in  all  companies ;  and  the  boy  may  thank 
his  kind  stars,  I  'm  sure,  to  the  end  of  his  days,  for  such  an 
escape.  But  pray,  Christopher,"  said  she,  persisting  in  her 
conversation  with  Christopher,  who  was  now  laying  the 
cloth  for  supper,  —  "pray,  which  house  was  it  in  Paradise- 
row?  where  the  Eagles  or  the  Misses  Roper  lodge,  or 
which?" 

"  It  was  at  my  Lady  Battersby's,  ma'am." 

"  Ha !  ha !"  cried  Mrs.  Theresa,  "  I  thought  we  should 
get  to  the  bottom  of  the  affair  at  last.  This  is  excellent ! 
This  will  make  an  admirable  story  for  my  Lady  Battersby 
the  next  time  I  see  her.  These  Quakers  are  so  sly !  —  Old 
Eden,  I  know,  has  long  wanted  to  get  himself  introduced 
in  that  house,  and  a  charming  charitable  expedient  he  hit 
upon  i     My  Lady  Battersby  will  enjoy  this,  of  all  things." 


THE     MIMIC.  301 


CHAPTER   III. 

"  Now,"  continued  Mrs.  Theresa,  turning  to  Frederick, 
as  soon  as  the  servant  had  left  the  room,  "  now,  Mr.  Frede- 
rick Montague,  I  have  a  favour  —  such  a  favour  —  to  ask  of 
you;  it's  a  favour  -which  only  you  can  grant;  you  have 
such  talents,  and  would  do  the  thing  so  admirably !  and  my 
Lady  Battersby  would  quite  adore  you  for  it.  She  will  do 
me  the  honour  to  be  here  to  spend  the  evening  to-morrow. 
I  'm  convinced  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Montague  will  find  themselves 
obliged  to  stay  out  another  day,  and  I  so  long  to  show  you 
off  to  her  ladyship  ;  and  your  Dr.  Carbuncle,  and  your  Coun- 
sellor Puff,  and  your  Miss  Croker,  and  all  your  charming 
characters.  You  must  let  me  introduce  you  to  her  ladyship 
to-morrow  evening.     Promise  me." 

"  Oh,  ma'am,"  said  Frederick,  "  I  cannot  promise  you  any 
such  thing.  Indeed,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  ;  bvit  I  can- 
not come,  indeed." 

"Why  not,  my  dear  sir?  why  not?  You  don't  think  I 
mean  you  should  promise,  if  you  are  certain  your  papa  and 
mamma  will  be  home?" 

"  If  they  do  come  home,  I  will  ask  them  about  it,"  said 
Frederick,  hesitating ;  for  though  he  by  no  means  wished 
to  accept  the  invitation,  he  had  not  yet  acquired  the  neces- 
sary power  of  saying  no,  decidedly. 

"  Ask  them  !"  repeated  Mrs.  Theresa  ;  "  my  dear  sir,  at 
your  age,  must  you  ask  your  papa  and  mamma  about  such 
things?" 

"  Must !  no,  ma'am,"  said  Frederick ;  "  but  I  said  I 
would ;  I  know  I  need  not,  because  my  father  and  mother 
always  let  me  judge  for  myself  about  everything  almost." 

"And  about  this,  I  am  sure,"  cried  Marianne;  "papa 
and  mamma,  you  know,  just  as  they  were  going  away,  said, 
*  If  Mrs.  Theresa  asks  you  to  come,  do  as  you  think  best '" 


602  THE     MIMIC. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Theresa,  "  you  know  it  rests  with 
yourselves,  if  you  may  do  as  you  please." 

"  To  be  sure  I  may,  ma'am,"  said  Frederick,  colouring 
from  that  species  of  emotion  which  is  justly  called  false 
shame,  and  which  often  conquers  real  shame ;  "  to  be  sure, 
ma'am,  I  may  do  as  I  please." 

"  Then  I  may  make  sure  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Theresa ;  "  for 
now  it  would  be  downright  rudeness  to  tell  a  lady  you  won't 
do  as  she  pleases.  Mr.  Frederick  Montague,  I  am  sure,  is 
too  well-bred  a  young  gentleman  to  do  so  impolite,  so  ungal- 
lant  a  thing !" 

The  jargon  of  politeness  and  gallantry  is  frequently 
brought  by  the  silly  acquaintance  of  young  people  to  con- 
fuse their  simple  morality  and  clear  good  sense.  A  new 
and  unintelligible  system  is  presented  to  them  in  a  language 
foreign  to  their  understanding  and  contradictory  to  their 
feelings.  They  hesitate  between  new  motives  and  old  prin- 
ciples ;  from  the  fear  of  being  thought  ignorant,  they  become 
affected  ;  and  from  the  dread  of  being  thought  to  be  chil- 
dren, act  like  fools.  But  all  this  they  feel  only  when  they 
are  in  the  company  of  such  people  as  Mrs.  Theresa  Tattle. 

"  Ma'am,"  Frederick  began,  "  I  do  n't  mean  to  be  rude, 
but  I  hope  you  '11  excuse  me  from  coming  to  drink  tea  with 
you  to-morrow,  because  my  father  and  mother  are  noi 
acquainted  with  Lady  Battersby,  and  maybe  they  might  not 
like—" 

"  Take  care,  take  care,"  said  Mrs.  Theresa,  laughing  at 
his  perplexity ;  "  you  want  to  get  off  from  obliging  me,  and 
y(  u  do  n't  know  how.  You  had  very  nearly  made  a  most 
shocking  blunder,  in  putting  it  all  upon  poor  Lady  Battersby. 
Now  you  know  it 's  impossible  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Montague  could 
have  in  nature  the  slightest  objection  to  my  introducing  you 
to  my  Lady  Battersby  at  my  own  house ;  for,  do  n't  you 
know  that,  besides  her  ladyship's  many  unexceptionable 
qualities,  which  one  need  not  talk  of,  she  is  cousin,  but 
once  removed,  to  the  Trotters  of  Lancashire,  your  mother's 


THE     MIMIC.  303 

great  favourites  ?  And  there  is  not  a  person  at  the  Wells, 
I  '11  venture  to  say,  could  be  of  more  advantage  to  your  sis- 
ter Sophy,  in  the  way  of  partners,  when  she  comes  to  go  to 
the  balls,  which  it's  to  be  supposed  she  will  some  time  or 
other ;  and  as  you  are  so  good  a  brother,  that 's  a  thing  to 
be  looked  to,  you  know.  Besides,  as  to  yourself,  there 's 
nothing  her  ladyship  delights  in  so  much  as  in  a  good 
mimic ;  and  she  '11  quite  adore  you  I" 

"  But  I  do  n't  want  her  to  adore  me,  ma'am,"  said  Frede- 
rick, bluntly ;  then,  correcting  himself,  added,  "'  I  mean  for 
being  a  mimic." 

"  Why  not,  my  love  ?  Between  friends,  can  there  be  any 
harm  in  showing  one's  talents, — you  that  have  such  talents 
to  show?  She'll  keep  your  secret,  I'll  answer  for  her; 
and,"  added  she,  "  you  need  n't  be  afraid  of  her  criticism  ; 
for,  between  you  and  me,  she  is  no  great  critic :  so  you  '11 
come.  Well,  thank  you,  that's  settled.  How  you  have 
made  me  beg  and  pray !  but  you  know  your  own  value,  I 
zee  —  as  you  entertaining  people  always  do.  One  must  ask 
a  wit,  like  a  fine  singer,  so  often.  Well,  but  now  for  the 
favour  I  was  going  to  ask  you." 

Frederick  look  surprised  ;  for  he  thought  that  the  favour 
of  his  company  was  what  she  meant ;  but  she  explained 
herself  further. 

"  The  old  Quaker  who  lodges  above,  old  Ephraim  Eden, 
iny  Lady  Battersby  and  I  have  so  much  diversion  about 
him  ;  he  is  the  best  character,  the  oddest  creature  !  If  you 
were  but  to  see  him  come  into  the  rooms  with  those  stiff 
skirts,  or  walking  with  his  eternal  sister  Birtha,  and  his 
everlasting  broad-brimmed  hat,  —  one  knows  him  a  mile 
off!  But  then  his  voice,  and  way,  and  all  together,  if  one 
could  get  them  to  the  lift,  they'd  be  better  than  anything 
on  the  stage  ;  better  even  than  anything  I  have  seen  to- 
night ;  and  I  think  you  'd  make  a  capital  Quaker  for  my 
Lady  Battersby :  but  then  the  thing  is,  one  can  never  get 
to  hear  the  old  quiz  talk.     Now  you  who  have  so  much 


304  THE     MIMIC. 

invention  and  cleverness  —  I  have  no  invention  myself-* 
but  could  not  you  hit  upon  some  way  of  getting  to  see  him, 
?o  that  you  might  get  him  by  heart?  I'm  sure  you,  who 
%re  so  quick,  would  only  want  to  see  him,  and  hear  him  for 
half  a  minute,  to  be  able  to  take  him  off,  so  as  to  kill  one 
with  laughing.     But  I  've  no  invention." 

"  0,  as  to  the  invention,"  said  Frederick,  "  I  know  an 
admirable  way  of  doing  the  thing,  if  that  was  all ;  but  then 
remember,  I  don't  say  I  will  do  the  thing,  for  I  will  not. 
But  I  know  a  way  of  getting  up  into  his  room,  and  seeing 
him,  without  his  knowing  I  was  there." 

"  0  tell  it  me,  you  charming,  clever  creature !" 

"  But  remember,  I  do  not  say  I  will  do  it." 

"  Well,  well,  let  us  hear  it,  and  you  shall  do  as  you  please 
afterward." 

"Merciful  goodness!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tattle,  "do  my 
ears  deceive  me?  I  declare  I  looked  round,  and  thought  the 
squeaking  chimney-sweeper  was  in  the  room." 

"  So  did  I,  Frederick,  I  declare,"  cried  Marianna,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  I  never  heard  anything  so  like  his  voice  in  my  life." 

Frederick  imitated  the  squeaking  voice  of  this  chimney- 
sweeper to  great  perfection. 

"  Now,"  continued  he,  "  this  fellow  is  just  my  height ;  the 
old  Quaker,  —  if  my  face  were  blackened,  and  if  I  were  to 
change  clothes  with  the  chimney-sweeper,  —  I  '11  answer  for 
it,  would  never  know  me." 

"Oh,  it's  an  admirable  invention!  I  give  you  infinite 
credit  for  it!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Theresa.  "It  shall,  it  must 
be  done  :  I  '11  ring,  and  have  the  fellow  up  this  minute." 

"  0,  no  ;  do  not  ring,"  said  Frederick,  stopping  her  hand; 
"  I  do  n't  mean  to  do  it.  You  know  you  promised  that  I 
should  do  as  I  pleased ;  I  only  told  you  my  invention." 

"  Well,  well,  but  only  let  me  ring,  and  ask  whether  the 
chimney-sweepers  are  below ;  you  shall  do  as  you  please 
afterward." 

"  Christopher,  yhut  the  door ;  Christopher,"  svid  she  to 


THE     MIMIC.  305 

the  servant,  who  came  up  when  she  rang,  "  pray,  are  the 
sweeps  gone  yet?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"But  have  they  been  up  to  old  Eden  yet?" 

"  0  no,  ma'am ;  nor  be  not  to  go  till  the  bell  rings ;  foi 
Miss  Birtha,  ma'am,  was  asleep,  laying  down,  and  her  bro- 
ther would  n't  have  her  waked  on  no  account  whatsomever  ; 
he  came  down  his  self  to  the  kitchen  to  the  sweeps,  though  ; 
but  would  n't  have,  as  I  heard  him  say,  his  sister  waked  for 
no  account.  But  Miss  Birtha's  bell  will  ring,  when  she 
awakens,  for  the  sweeps,  ma'am  ;  't  was  she  wanted  to  see 
the  boy  as  her  brother  saved,  and  I  suppose  sent  for  'em  to 
give  'em  something  charitable,  ma'am." 

"  "Well,  never  mind  your  suppositions,"  said  Mrs.  Theresa ; 
"  run  down  this  very  minute  to  the  little  squeaking  chimney- 
sweep, and  send  him  up  to  me.  Quick,  but  do  n't  let  the 
other  bear  come  up  with  him." 

Christopher,  who  had  curiosity  as  well  as  his  mistress, 
when  he  returned  with  the  chimney-sweeper,  prolonged  his 
own  stay  in  the  room,  by  sweeping  the  hearth,  throwing 
down  the  tongs  and  shovel,  and  picking  them  up  again. 

"  That  will  do,  Christopher  ;  Christopher,  that  will  do,  I 
say,"  Mrs.  Theresa  repeated  in  vain.  She  was  obliged  to 
say,  "  Christopher,  you  may  go,"  before  he  would  depart. 

"  Now,"  said  she  to  Frederick,  "  step  in  here  to  the  next 
room  with  this  candle,  and  you  will  be  equipped  in  «.n 
instant.  Only  just  change  clothes  with  the  boy ;  only  just 
let  me  see  what  a  charming  chimney-sweeper  you  'd  make  ; 
you  shall  do  as  you  please  afterward." 

"Well,  I'll  only  change  clothes  with  him,  just  to  show 
you  for  one  minute." 

"  But,"  said  Marianne  to  Mrs.  Theresa,  while  Frederick 
wa3  changing  his  clothes,  "I  think  Frederick  is  right 
about — " 

"About  what,  love?" 

"  I  think  he  is  in  the  right  not  to  go  up,  though  he  can 
20 


306  THE     MIMIC. 

do  it  so  easily,  to  see  that  gentleman,  —  1  mean  on  purpose 
to  mimic  and  laugh  at  him  afterward;  I  do  n't  think  that 
would  be  quite  right." 

"  Why,  pray,  Miss  Marianne  ?" 

"  Why,  because  he  is  so  good-natured  to  his  sister.  Ht 
would  not  let  her  be  waked." 

"  Dear,  it's  easy  to  be  good  in  such  little  things  ;  and  ht 
won't  have  long  to  be  good  to  her  neither ;  for  I  do  n't  think 
she  '11  trouble  him  long  in  this  world,  anyhow." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Marianne. 

"  That  she  '11  die,  child." 

"  Die  !  die  with  that  beautiful  colour  in  her  cheeks  !  How 
sorry  her  poor,  poor  brother  will  be  !  But  she  will  not  die, 
I  'm  sure,  for  she  walks  about,  and  runs  up-stairs  so  lightly  I 
0,  you  must  be  quite  entirely  mistaken,  I  hope." 

"  If  I  'm  mistaken,  Dr.  Panado  Cardamum  's  mistaken 
too,  then,  that's  my  comfort.  He  says,  unless  the  waters 
work  a  miracle,  she  stands  a  bad  chance  ;  and  she  won't  fol- 
low my  advice,  and  consult  the  doctor  for  her  health." 

"  He  would  frighten  her  to  death,  perhaps,"  said  Mari- 
anne.    "  I  hope  Frederick  won't  go  up  to  disturb  her." 

"Lud,  child,  you  are  turned  simpleton  all  of  a  sudden; 
how  can  your  brother  disturb  her  more  than  the  real  chim- 
ney-sweeper ?" 

"  But  I  do  n't  think  it 's  right,"  persisted  Marianne,  "  and 
I  shall  tell  him  so." 

"  Nay,  Miss  Marianne,  I  do  n't  commend  you  now ;  young 
ladies  should  not  be  so  forward  to  give  opinions  and  advice 
to  their  elder  brothers  unasked ;  and  Mr.  Frederick  and  I, 
I  presume,  must  know  what's  right,  as  well  as  Miss  Mari- 
anne. Hush !  here  he  is !  0  the  capital  figure !"  cried 
Mrs.  Theresa.  "Bravo!  bravo!"  cried  she,  as  Frederick 
entered  in  the  chimney-sweeper's  dress;  and  as  he  spoke, 
saying,  "  I  'm  afraid,  please  your  ladyship,  to  dirty  your 
Ladyship's  carpet,"  she  broke  out  into  immoderate  raptures, 
calling  him  "  her  charming  chimney-sweeper !"  and  repeat- 


THE     MIMIC.  307 

ing  that  she  knew  beforehand  the  character  would  do  foi 
him. 

She  instantly  rang  the  bell,  in  spite  of  all  expostulation 

—  ordered  Christopher  to  send  up  the  other  chimney-sweeper 

—  triumphed  in  observing  that  Christopher  did  not  in  the 
least  know  Frederick  when  he  came  into  the  room  —  and 
offered  to  lay  any  wager  that  the  other  chimney-sweepei 
would  mistake  him  for  his  companion.  And  so  he  did,  and 
when  Frederick  spoke,  the  voice  was  so  very  like  that  it 
was  scarcely  possible  that  he  should  have  perceived  the  dif- 
ference. 

Marianne  was  diverted  by  this  scene ;  but  she  started 
when  in  the  midst  of  it  they  heard  a  bell  ring. 

"  That 's  the  lady's  bell,  and  we  must  go,"  said  the  blunt 
chimney-sweeper. 

"  Go,  then,  about  your  business,  and  here 's  a  shilling  for 
you  to  drink,  my  honest  fellow.  I  did  not  know,  you  were 
so  much  bruised  when  I  first  saw  you  —  I  won't  detain  you. 
Go,"  said  she,  pushing  Frederick  towards  the  door. 

Marianne  sprang  forward  to  speak  to  him  ;  but  Mrs.  The- 
resa kept  her  off,  and,  though  Frederick  resisted,  the  lady 
shut  the  door  upon  him  by  superior  force ;  and  having 
locked  it,  there  was  no  retreat. 

Mrs.  Tattle  and  Marianne  waited  impatiently  for  Frede 
rick's  return. 

"  I  hear  them,"  cried  Marianne  ;  "  I  hear  them  coming 
down-stairs." 

They  listened  again,  and  all  was  silent. 

At  length  they  heard  suddenly  a  great  noise  of  many 
steps,  and  many  voices  in  confusion  in  the  hall. 

"Merciful!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Theresa,  "it  must  be  your 
father  and  mother  come  back." 

Marianne  ran  to  unlock  the  room-door,  and  Mrs.  Theresa 
followed  her  into  the  hall. 

The  hall  was  rather  dark,  but  under  the  lamp  a  crowd  of 
people.  All  the  servants  in  the  house  were  gathered  together. 


308  THE     MIMIC. 

As  Mrs.  Theresa  approached,  the  crowd  opened  in  silence, 
and  she  beheld  in  the  midst  Frederick,  blood  streaming  from 
his  face  ;  his  head  was  held  by  Christopher,  and  the  chim- 
ney-sweeper was  holding  a  basin  for  him. 

*  Merciful !  what  will  become  of  me  !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Theresa.  "  Bleeding !  he  '11  bleed  to  death  !  Can  nobody 
think  of  anything  that  will  stop  blood  in  a  minute?  A 
key,  a  large  key  down  his  back ;  a  key  —  has  nobody  a  key  ? 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Montague  will  be  here  before  he  has  done 
bleeding.  A  key !  cobwebs !  a  puff-ball !  for  mercy's  sake ! 
Can  nobody  think  of  anything  that  will  stop  blood  in  a 
minute  ?     Gracious  me  !  he  '11  bleed  to  death,  I  believe." 

"  He  '11  bleed  to  death  !  0  my  brother !"  cried  Marianne, 
catching  hold  of  the  words  ;  and,  terrified,  she  ran  up-stairs, 
crying,  "  Sophy,  0  Sophy !  come  down  this  minute,  or  he'll 
be  dead !  my  brother 's  bleeding  to  death  !  Sophy !  Sophy ! 
come  down,  or  he  '11  be  dead." 

11  Let  go  the  basin,  you,"  said  Christopher,  pulling  the 
basin  out  of  the  chimney-sweeper's  hand,  who  had  all  this 
time  stood  in  silence,  "  you  are  not  fit  to  hold  the  basin  for 
a  gentleman." 

"  Let  him  hold  it,"  said  Frederick ;  "  he  did  not  mean  to 
hurt  me." 

"That's  more  than  he  deserves.  I'm  certain  sure  he 
might  have  known  well  enough  it  was  Mr.  Frederick  all  the 
time,  and  he'd  no  business  to  go  to  fight  —  such  a  one  a? 
he  —  with  a  gentleman." 

"  I  did  not  know  he  was  a  gentleman,"  said  the  chimney- 
sweeper ;  "  how  could  I  ?" 

"  How  could  he,  indeed  ?"  said  Frederick ;  "  he  shall  hold 
the  basin." 

"  Gracious  me  !  I  'm  glad  to  hear  him  speak  like  himself 
again,  at  any  rate,"  cried  Mrs.  Theresa.  "  And  here  comes 
Miss  Sophy,  too." 

"  Sophy !"  cried  Frederick.  "  0,  Sophy !  do  n't  you  come 
—  do  n't  look  at  me,  you  '11  despise  me." 


THE     MIMIC.  300 

"My  brother! — Where?  where?"  said  Sophy,  looking, 
as  she  thought,  at  the  two  chimney-sweepers. 

"It's  Frederick/'  said  Marianne  ;  "  that's  my  brother." 

"  Miss  Sophy,  do  n't  be  alarmed,"  Mrs.  Theresa  began 
"  but,  gracious  goodness,  I  wish  Miss  Birtha — " 

At  this  instant  a  female  figure  in  white  appeared  upon 
the  stairs  ;  she  passed  swiftly  on,  while  every  One  gave  way 
before  her. 

"  0,  Miss  Birtha !"  cried  Mrs.  Theresa,  catching  hold  of 
her  gown  to  stop  her,  as  she  came  near  Frederick.  "  0, 
Miss  Eden,  your  beautiful  India  muslin !  take  care  of  the 
chimney-sweeper,  for  Heaven's  sake."  But  she  pressed  for- 
ward. 

"It's  my  brother  !  will  he  die?"  cried  Marianne,  throw- 
ing her  arms  around  her,  and  looking  up  as  if  to  a  being 
of  a  superior  order ;  "  will  he  bleed  to-death  ?" 

"  No,  my  love  !"  answered  a  sweet  voice  ;  "  do  not  frighten 
thyself." 

"  I  've  done  bleeding,"  said  Frederick. 

"  Dear  me,  Miss  Marianne,  if  you  would  not  make  such 
a  rout,"  cried  Mrs.  Tattle.  " Miss  Birtha,  it's  nothing  but 
a  frolic.  You  see  Mr.  Frederick  Montague  only  in  a  mas- 
querade dress.  Nothing  in  the  world  but  a  frolic,  ma'am. 
You  see  he  stops  bleeding.  I  was  frightened  out  of  my 
wits  at  first ;  I  thought  it  was  his  eye,  but  I  see  it  is  only 
his  nose  ;  all 's  well  that  ends  well.  Mr.  Frederick,  we  '11 
keep  your  counsel.  Pray,  ma'am,  let  us  ask  no  questions, 
it's  only  a  boyish  frolic.  Come,  Mr.  Frederick,  this  way, 
into  my  room,  and  I  '11  give  you  a  towel  and  some  clean 
water,  and  you  can  get  rid  of  this  masquerade  dress.  Make 
haste,  for  fear  your  father  and  mother  should  pop  in  upon 
us." 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  of  thy  father  and  mother ;  they  are 
Burely  thy  best  friends,"  said  a  mild  voice.  It  was  the  voice 
oi  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  now  stood  behind  Frederick. 

"  0,  sir !  0,  Mr.  Eden !"  said  Frederick,  turning  to  him. 


810  THE     MIMIC. 

"  Do  n't  betray  me  !  for  goodness'  sake,  say  nothing  about 
me,"  whispered  Mrs.  Tattle. 

"  I  'm  not  thinking  about  you.  Let  me  speak,"  cried  he. 
pushing  away  her  hand,  which  stopped  his  mouth.  "  I  shall 
say  nothing  about  you,  I  promise  you,"  said  Frederick,  with 
a  look  of  contempt. 

"  No,  but  for  your  own  sake,  my  dear  sir,  your  papa  and 
mamma!  Bless  me!  is  not  that  Mrs.  Montague's  car- 
riage ?" 

"  My  brother,  ma'am,"  said  Sophy,  "  is  not  afraid  of  my 
father  and  mother's  coming  back.  Let  him  speak  —  he  was 
going  to  speak  the  truth." 

"  To  be  sure,  Miss  Sophy,  I  would  n't  hinder  him  from 
speaking  the  truth  ;  but  it's  not  proper,  I  presume,  ma'am, 
to  speak  the  truth  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places,  and  before 
everybody,  servants  and  all.  I  only  wanted,  ma'am,  to 
hinder  your  brother  from  exposing  himself.  A  hall,  I 
apprehend,  is  not  a  proper  place  for  explanations." 

"  Here,"  said  Mr.  Eden,  opening  the  door  of  his  room, 
which  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall  to  Mrs.  Tattle's, 
"  here 's  a  place,"  said  he  to  Frederick,  "  where  thou  mayst 
speak  the  truth  at  all  times,  and  before  everybody." 

"  Nay,  my  room 's  at  Mr.  Frederick  Montague's  service, 
and  my  door's  open  too.  This  way,  pray,"  said  she,  pull- 
ing his  arm. 

But  Frederick  broke  from  her,  and  followed  Mr.  Eden. 

"  0,  sir,  will  you  forgive  me  ?"  cried  he. 

"  Forgive  thee  !  —  and  what  have  I  to  forgive  ?" 

"  Forgive,  brother,  without  asking  what,"  said  Birtha, 
smiling. 

"  He  shall  know  all !"  cried  Frederick ;  "  all  that  con- 
cerns myself,  I  mean.  Sir,  I  disguised  myself  in  this  dress ; 
I  came  up  to  your  room  to-night  on  purpose  to  see  you, 
without  your  knowing  it,  that  I  might  mimic  you.  The 
chimney-sweeper,  where  is  he?"  said  Frederick,  looking 
round,  and  he  ran  into  the  hall  to  seek  for  him  —  "Mav  he 


THE     MIMIC.  311 

;ome  in  ?  he  may  —  he  is  a  brave,  an  honest,  good,  grateful 
boy.  He  never  guessed  who  I  was :  after  we  left  you,  we 
went  down  to  the  kitchen  together,  and  there  I,  fool  that  I 
was,  for  the  pleasure  of  making  Mr.  Christopher  and  the 
servants  laugh,  began  to  mimic  you.  This  boy  said,  he 
would  not  stand  by  and  hear  you  laughed  at ;  that  you  had 
saved  his  life  ;  that  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself;  that 
you  had  just  given  me  half  a  crown,  —  and  so  you  had :  but 
I  went  on,  and  told  him  I  'd  knock  him  down  if  he  said  ano- 
ther word.  He  did  ;  I  gave  the  first  blow  —  we  fought  —  I 
came  to  the  ground  —  the  servants  pulled  me  up  again. 
They  found  out,  I  do  n't  know  how,  that  I  was  not  a  chim- 
ney-sweeper—  the  rest  you  saw.  And  now  can  you  forgive 
me,  sir  ?"  said  Frederick  to  Mr.  Eden,  seizing  hold  of  his 
hand. 

"The  other  hand,  friend,"  said  the  Quaker,  gently  with- 
drawing his  right  hand,  which  everybody  now  observed  was 
much  swelled,  and  putting  it  into  his  bosom  again  —  "  This, 
and  welcome/'  offering  his  other  hand  to  Frederick,  and 
shaking  his  with  a  smile. 

"  0  that  other  hand  I"  said  Frederick,  "  that  was  hurt,  I 
remember.  —  How  ill  I  have  behaved  —  extremely  ill.  But 
this  is  a  lesson  that  I  shall  never  forget  as  long  as  I  live.  I 
hope  for  the  future  I  shall  behave  like  a  gentleman." 

*  And  like  a  man  —  and  like  a  good  man,  I  am  sure  thou 
wilt,"  said  the  good  Quaker,  shaking  Frederick's  hand  affec- 
tionately, "  or  I  am  much  mistaken,  friend,  in  that  black 
countenance." 

"You  are  not  mistaken,"  cried  Marianne:  "Frederick 
will  never  be  persuaded  aga  n  by  anybody  to  do  what  he 
does  not  think  right ;  and  now,  brother,  you  may  wash  your 
black  countenance." 

Just  when  Frederick  had  gotten  rid  of  half  his  black 
countenance,  a  double  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  It  was 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Montague. 

"What  will   you   do  now?"    whispered  Mrs.   Theresa 


&12  THE     MIMIC. 

to  Frederick,   as  his  father  and  mother  came  into  the 
room. 

"  A  chimney-sweeper !  covered  with  blood  V  exclaimed 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Montague. 

"Father,  I  am  Frederick,"  said  he,  stepping  forward 
towards  them,  as  they  stood  in  astonishment. 

"  Frederick  !  my  son  I" 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  'm  not  hurt  half  so  much  as  I  deserve ; 
1*11  tell  you— " 

"  Nay,"  interrupted  Birtha,  "  let  my  brother  tell  the  story 
this  time  ;  thou  hast  told  it  once,  and  told  it  well  — no  one 
but  my  brother  could  tell  it  better." 

"  A  story  never  tells  so  well  the  second  time,  to  be  sure," 
said  Mrs.  Theresa,  "  but  Mr.  Eden  will  certainly  make  the 
best  of  it." 

Without  taking  any  notice  of  Mrs.  Tattle,  or  her  appre- 
hensive looks,  Mr.  Eden  explained  all  that  he  knew  of  the 
affair  in  a  few  words.  "Your  son,"  concluded  he,  "will 
quickly  put  off  this  dirty  dress  ;  the  dress  hath  not  stained 
the  mind  —  that  is  fair  and  honourable.  When  he  felt  him- 
self in  the  wrong,  he  said  so  ;  nor  was  he  in  haste  to  con- 
ceal his  adventure  from  his  father ;  this  made  me  think  well 
of  both  father  and  son.  —  I  speak  plainly,  friend,  for  that 
's  best.  But  what  is  become  of  the  other  chimney-sweeper? 
ne  will  want  to  go  home,"  said  Mr.  Eden,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Theresa. 

Without  making  any  reply,  she  hurried  out  of  the  room 
as  fast  as  possible,  and  returned  in  a  few  moments,  with  a 
)ook  of  extreme  consternation. 

"  Here  is  a  catastrophe,  indeed  !  —  now,  indeed,  Mr.  Fre- 
derick, your  papa  and  mamma  have  reason  to  be  angry.  A 
new  suit  of  clothes  !  —  the  barefaced  villain  !  —  gone  —  no 
'dgn  of  them  in  my  closet,  or  anywhere  —  the  door  was 
locked  —  he  must  have  gone  up  the  chimney,  out  upon  the 
leads,  and  so  escaped  ;  but  Christopher  is  after  him.  I  pro- 
test, Mrs.  Montague,  you  take  it  quietly.  —  The  wretch !  -  - 


THE     MIMIC.  313 

a  new  suit  of  clothes,  blue  coat  and  buff  waistcoat.  —  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing !  —  I  declare,  Mr.  Montague, 
you  are  vastly  good  now,  not  to  be  in  a  passion,"  added 
Mrs.  Theresa. 

"  Madam,"  replied  Mr.  Montague,  with  a  look  of  much 
civil  contempt,  "  I  think  the  loss  of  a  suit  of  clothes,  and 
even  the  disgrace  that  my  son  has  been  brought  to  this  eve- 
ning, fortunate  circumstances  in  his  education.  He  will,  I 
am  persuaded,  judge  and  act  for  himself  more  wisely  in 
future :  nor  will  he  be  tempted  to  offend  against  humanity, 
for  tne  sake  of  being  called  ■  the  best  mimic  in  the  world/  " 


MADEMOISELLE  PANACHE. 


PART   I. 

Mxs.  Temple  had  two  daughters,  Emma  and  Helen.  She 
had  taken  a  great  deal  of  care  of  their  education,  and  they 
were  very  fond  of  their  mother,  and  particularly  happy 
whenever  she  had  leisure  to  converse  with  them  ;  they  used 
to  tell  her  everything  that  they  thought  and  felt ;  so  that 
she  had  it  in  her  power  early  to  correct,  or,  rather,  to  teach 
them  to  correct,  any  little  faults  in  their  disposition,  and  to 
rectify  those  errors  of  judgment  to  which  young  people, 
from  want  of  experience,  are  so  liable. 

Mrs.  Temple  lived  in  the  country,  and  her  society  was 
composed  of  a  few  intimate  friends ;  she  wished,  especially 
during  the  education  of  her  children,  to  avoid  the  numerous 
inconveniences  of  what  is  called  an  extensive  acquaintance. 
However,  as  her  children  grew  older,  it  was  necessary  that 
they  should  be  accustomed  to  see  a  variety  of  characters, 
and  still  more  necessary  that  they  should  learn  to  judge  of 
them.  There  was  little  danger  of  Emma's  being  hurt  by 
the  first  impressions  of  new  faces  and  new  ideas  ;  but  Helen, 
of  a  more  vivacious  temper,  had  not  yet  acquired  her  sis- 
ter's good  sense.  We  must  observe  that  Helen  was  a  little 
disposed  to  be  fond  of  novelty,  and  sometimes  formed  a  pro 
digiously  high  opinion  of  persons  whom  she  had  seen  but 
for  a  few  hours.  "  Not  to  admire  "  was  an  art  which  she 
had  to  learn. 

When  Helen  was  between  eleven  and  twelve  years  old, 
Lady  S***  returned  from  abroad,  and  came  to  reside  at  her 

-      (314) 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.  315 

oountry-seat,  which  was  very  near  Mrs.  Temple's.  The  lady 
had  a  daughter,  Lady  Augusta,  who  was  a  little  older  than 
Helen.  One  morning  a  fine  coach  drove  to  the  door,  and 
Lady  S***  and  her  daughter  were  announced.  We  shall 
not  say  anything  at  present  of  either  of  the  ladies,  except 
that  Helen  was  much  delighted  with  them,  and  talked  of 
nothing  else  to  her  sister  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

The  next  morning,  as  these  two  sisters  were  sitting  at 
work  in  their  mother's  dressing-room,  the  following  conver- 
sation began : — 

"  Sister,  do  you  like  pink  or  blue  the  best?"  said  Helen. 

"  I  do  n't  know ;  blue,  I  think." 

" 0  blue,  to  be  sure.     Mother,  which  do  you  like  best?" 

"Why,  'tis  a  question  of  such  importance,  I  must  have 
time  to  deliberate ;  I  am  afraid  I  like  pink  the  best." 

"  Pink  !  dear,  that's  very  odd  !  But,  mamma,  didn't  you 
think  yesterday  that  Lady  Augusta's  sash  was  a  remarkably 
pretty  pale  blue  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  thought  it  was  very  pretty  ;  but  as  I  ha^e  seen 
a  great  many  such  sashes,  I  did  not  think  it  was  anything 
very  remarkable." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  was  not  remarkably  pretty ;  but  you  '11 
allow,  ma'am,  that  it  was  very  well  put  on  ?" 

"  It  was  put  on  as  other  sashes  are,  as  well  as  I  remem- 
ber." 

"  I  like  Lady  Augusta  exceedingly,  mother." 

"  What !  because  she  has  a  blue  sash  ?" 

"  No,  I  'm  not  quite  so  silly  as  that,"  said  Helen,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  not  because  she  has  a  blue  sash." 

"Why  then  did  you  Fke  her?  because  it  was  well  put 
on  ?" 

"  0,  no,  no." 

"Why,  then?" 

"  Why !  mamma,  why  do  you  ask  why  ?  I  can't  tell  why. 
You  knDw  one  often  likes  and  dislikes  people  at  first  without 
exactly  knowing  why." 


316        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 

"  One !  whom  do  you  mean  by  one  V 

"  Myself,  and  everybody." 

"  You,  perhaps,  but  not  everybody ;  for  only  silly  people 
like  and  dislike  without  any  reason." 

"  But  I  hope  I  'm  not  one  of  the  silly  people ;  I  only 
meant  that  I  had  no  thought  about  it ;  I  dare  say,  if  I  were 
to  think  about  it,  I  should  be  able  to  give  you  a  great  many 
reasons." 

"  I  shall  be  contented  with  one  good  one,  Helen." 

"  Well  then,  ma'am,  in  the  first  place,  I  liked  her  because 
she  was  so  good-humoured." 

"  You  saw  her  but  for  one  half-hour.  Are  you  sure  that 
she  is  good-humoured  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am !  but  I  'm  sure  she  looked  very  good-hu- 
moured." 

"That's  another  affair;  however,  I  acknowledge  it  is 
reasonable  to  feel  disposed  to  like  any  one  who  has  a  good- 
humoured  countenance,  because  the  temper  has,  I  believe, 
a  very  strong  influence  upon  certain  muscles  of  the  face ; 
and,  Helen,  though  you  are  no  great  physiognomist,  we  will 
take  it  for  granted  that  you  are  not  mistaken :  now  I  did  not 
think  Lady  Augusta  had  a  remarkably  good-tempered  coun- 
tenance, but  I  hope  that  I  am  mistaken.  Was  this  your 
only  reason  for  liking  her  exceedingly?" 

"  No,  not  my  only  reason  ;  I  liked  her — because — because 
— indeed,  ma'am,"  said  Helen,  growing  a  little  impatient 
at  finding  herself  unable  to  arrange  her  own  ideas,  "  indeed, 
ma'am,  I  don't  just  remember  anything  in  particular,  but 
I  know  I  thought  her  very  agreeable  altogether." 

"  Saying  that  you  think  a  person  very  agreeable  altoge- 
ther, may  be  a  common  mode  of  expression ;  but  I  am 
obliged  to  inform  you  that  it  is  no  reason,  nor  do  I  exactly 
comprehend  what  it  means,  unless  it  means,  in  other  words, 
that  you  don't  choose  to  be  at  the  trouble  of  thinking.  I 
am  sadly  afraid,  Helen,  that  you  must  be  content  at  last  to 
be  ranked  among  the  silly  ones  who  like  and  dislike  without 
knowing  why.     Hey,  Helen  ?" 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        317 

"  0  no,  indeed,  mother,"  said  Helen,  putting  down  her 
work. 

"My  dear,  I  am  sorry  to  distress  you;  but  what  are 
become  of  the  great  many  good  reasons  ?" 

"  0,  I  have  them  still ;  but  then  I  'm  afraid  to  tell  them, 
because  Emma  will  laugh  at  me." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  won't  laugh,"  said  Emma ;  "  besides,  if 
you  please,  I  can  go  away." 

"No,  no,  sit  still;  I  will  tell  them  directly.  Why, 
mother,  you  know,  before  we  saw  Lady  Augusta,  everybody 
told  us  how  pretty,  and  accomplished,  and  agreeable  she 
was." 

"Everybody!  nobody  that  I  remember,"  said  Emma, 
"  but  Mrs.  H.  and  Miss  K." 

"  0,  indeed,  sister,  and  Lady  M.  too." 
"  Well,  and  Lady  M.,  that  makes  three." 
"  But  are  three  people  everybody  ?" 
"  No,  to  be  sure,  said  Helen,  a  little  disconcerted ;  "  but 
you  promised  not  to  laugh  at  me,  Emma.   However,  mother, 
without  joking,  I  am  sure  Lady  Augusta  is  very  accom- 
plished at  least.     Do  you  know,  ma'am,  she  has  a  French 
governess  ?     But  I  forget  her  name." 

"  Never  mind  her  name,  it  is  little  to  the  purpose." 
"0,  but  I  recollect  it  now  —  Mademoiselle  Panache." 
"Why,  undoubtedly  Lady  Augusta's  having  a  French 
governess,  and  her  name  being  Mademoiselle  Panache,  are 
incontrovertible  proofs  of  the  excellence  of  her  education. 
But  I  think  you  said  you  were  sure  that  she  was  very 
accomplished  ;  what  do  you  mean  by  accomplished  ?" 

"  Why,  that  she  dances  extremely  well,  and  that  she 
speaks  French  and  Italian,  and  that  she  draws  exceedingly 
well  indeed ;  takes  likenesses,  mamma !  likenesses  in  minia- 
ture, mother!" 

"  You  saw  them,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Saw  them !  No,  I  did  not  see  them,  but  I  heard  of 
them." 


318        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 

"  That's  a  singular  method  of  judging  of  pictures." 

"But,  however,  she  certainly  plays  extremely  well  upcw 
the  pianoforte,  and  understands  music  perfectly.  I  have  n 
particular  reason  for  knowing  this,  however." 

"  You  did  not  hear  her  play  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  saw  an  Italian  song  written  in  her  own  hand, 
and  she  told  me  she  set  it  to  music  herself." 

"You  saw  her  music,  and  heard  of  her  drawings;  — 
excellent  proofs  !  — Well,  but  her  dancing?" 

"Why,  she  told  me  the  name  of  her  dancing-master,  and 
it  sounded  like  a  foreign  name." 

"  So,  I  suppose,  he  must  be  a  good  one,"  said  Emma, 
laughing. 

"But,  seriously,  I  do  believe  she  is  sensible." 

"Well:  your  cause  of  belief?" 

"  Why,  I  asked  her  if  she  had  read  much  history,  and 
she  answered,  'a  little;'  but  I  saw  by  her  look  she  meant 
a  great  deal.  Nay,  Emma,  you  are  laughing  now ;  I  saw 
you  smile." 

"  Forgive  her,  Helen  ;  indeed  it  was  very  difficult  to  help 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Temple. 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  Helen,  "  I  believe  I  have  been  a 
little  hasty  in  my  judgment,  and  all  my  good  reasons  are 
reduced  to  nothing :  I  dare  say  all  this  time  Lady  Augusta 
is  very  ignorant,  and  very  ill-natured." 

"  Nay,  now  you  are  going  into  the  opposite  extreme ;  it 
is  possible  she  may  have  all  the  accomplishments,  and  good 
qualities,  which  you  first  imagined  her  to  have ;  I  only 
meant  to  show  you  that  you  had  no  proofs  of  them  hith- 
erto." 

"But  surely,  mother,  it  would  be  but  good-natured  to 
believe  a  stranger  to  be  amiable  and  sensible  when  we  know 
nothing  to  the  contrary :  strangers  may  be  as  good  as  the 
people  we  have  known  all  our  lives ;  so  it  would  be  very 
hard  upon  them,  and  very  silly  in  us  too,  if  we  were  to  take 
it  for  granted  they  were  everything  that  was  bad,  merely 
because  they  were  strangers." 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        319 

"  You  do  not  yet  reason  with  perfect  accuracy,  Helen :  ia 
there  no  difference  between  thinking  people  everything  that 
is  good  and  amiable,  and  taking  it  for  granted  that  they  are 
everything  that  is  bad  ?" 

"  But  then,  mother,  what  can  one  do  ?  —  To  be  alwaya 
doubting  and  doubting  is  very  disagreeable :  and  at  first, 
when  one  knows  nothing  of  a  person,  how  can  we  judge?" 

"  There  is  no  necessity,  that  I  can  perceive,  for  your  judg- 
ing of  people's  characters  the  very  instant  they  come  into 
a  room,  which,  I  supposa,  is  what  you  mean  by  'at  first/ 
And  though  it  be  disagreeable  to  be  always  '  doubting  and 
doubting,'  yet  it  is  what  we  must  submit  to  patiently,  Helen, 
unless  we  would  submit  to  the  consequences  of  deciding  ill ; 
which,  let  me  assure  you,  my  little  daughter,  are  infinitely 
more  disagreeable." 

"  Then,"  said  Helen,  "  I  had  better  doubt  and  doubt  a 
little  longer,  mother,  about  Lady  Augusta." 

Here  the  conversation  ended.  A  few  days  afterward 
Lady  Augusta  came  with  her  mother  to  dine  at  Mrs.  Tem- 
ple's. For  the  first  hour  Helen  kept  her  resolution,  and 
with  some  difficulty  maintained  her  mind  in  the  painful, 
philosophic  state  of  doubt:  but  the  second  hour  Helen 
thought  that  it  would  be  unjust  to  doubt  any  longer;  espe- 
cially as  Lady  Augusta  had  just  shown  her  a  French  pocket- 
fan,  and  at  the  very  same  time  observed  to  Emma  that  her 
sister's  hair  was  a  true  auburn  colour. 

In  the  evening,  after  they  had  returned  from  a  walk,  they 
went  into  Mrs.  Temple's  dre  ising-room,  to  look  at  a  certain 
black  japanned  cabinet,  in  which  Helen  kept  some  dried 
specimens  of  plants,  and  other  curious  things.  Half  the 
drawers  in  this  cabinet  were  hers,  and  the  other  half  her 
sister's.  Now  Emma,  though  she  was  sufficiently  obliging 
and  polite  towards  her  new  acquaintance,  was  by  no  means 
enchanted  with  her ;  nor  did  she  feel  the  least  disposition 
suddenly  to  contract  a  friendship  with  a  person  she  had 
seen  but  a  few  hours.   This  reserve,  Helen  thought,  showed 


32Q        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 

some  want  of  feeling,  and  seemed  determined  to  make 
amends  for  it  by  the  warmth  and  frankness  of  her  own 
manners.  She  opened  all  the  drawers  of  the  cabinet  •  and 
while  Lady  Augusta  looked  and  admired,  Helen  watched 
her  eye,  as  Aboulcasem,  in  the  Persian  Tales,  watched  the 
eye  of  the  stranger  to  whom  he  was  displaying  his  trea- 
sures. Helen,  it  seems,  had  read  the  story,  which  had  left 
a  deep  impression  upon  her  imagination  ;  and  she  had  long 
determined,  on  the  first  convenient  opportunity,  to  imitate 
the  conduct  of  the  "  generous  Persian."  Immediately, 
therefore,  upon  observing  that  anything  struck  her  guest's 
fancy,  she  withdrew  it,  and  secretly  set  it  apart  for  her,  as 
Aboulcasem  set  apart  the  slave,  and  the  cup,  and  the  pea- 
cock. At  night,  when  Lady  Augusta  was  preparing  to 
depart,  Helen  slipped  out  of  the  room,  packed  up  the  things, 
and  as  Aboulcasem  wrote  a  scroll  with  his  presents,  she 
thought  it  necessary  to  accompany  hers  with  a  billet.  All 
this  being  accomplished  with  much  celerity,  and  some  tre- 
pidation, she  hurried  down-stairs,  gave  her  packet  to  one  of 
the  servants,  and  saw  it  lodged  in  Lady  S***'s  coach. 

"When  the  visit  was  ended,  and  Helen  and  Emma  had 
retired  to  their  own  room  at  night,  they  began  to  talk  instead 
of  going  to  sleep. 

"  Well,  sister,"  said  Helen,  "  and  what  did  you  give  to 
Lady  Augusta?" 

"I!  nothing." 

"Nothing!"  repeated  Helen,  in  a  triumphant  tone; 
u  then  she  will  not  think  you  very  generous." 

"I  do  not  want  her  to  think  me  very  generous,"  said 
Emma,  laughing ;  "  neither  do  I  think  that  giving  of  pre- 
sents to  strangers  is  always  a  proof  of  generosity." 

"  Strangers  or  no  strangers,  that  makes  no  difference  ;  for 
surely  a  person's  giving  away  anything  that  they  like  them- 
selves is  a  pretty  certain  proof,  Emma,  of  their  generosity." 

"  Not  quite  so  certain,"  replied  Emma ;  "  at  least  I  mean 
as  far  as  I  can  judge  of  my  own  mind.     I  know  I  have 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        321 

sometimes  given  things  away  that  I  liked  myself,  merely 
because  I  was  ashamed  to  refuse ;  now  I  should  not  call 
that  generosity,  but  weakness :  and  besides,  I  think  it  does 
make  a  great  deal  of  difference,  Helen,  whether  you  mean 
to  speak  of  strangers  or  friends.  I  am  sure  at  this  instant, 
If  there  is  anything  of  mine  in  that  black  cabinet  that  you 
wish  for,  Helen,  I  '11  give  it  you  with  the  greatest  pleasure." 

"  And  not  to  Lady  Augusta?" 

"  No ;  I  could  not  do  both :  and  do  you  think  I  would 
make  no  distinction  between  a  person  I  have  lived  with  and 
loved  for  years,  and  a  stranger  whom  I  know  and  care  very 
little  about?" 

Helen  was  touched  by  this  speech,  especially  as  she 
entirely  believed  her  sister;  for  Emma  was  not  one  who 
made  sentimental  speeches. 

A  short  time  after  this  visit,  Mrs.  Temple  took  her  two 
daughters  with  her  to  dine  at  Lady  S***'s.  As  they  hap- 
pened to  go  rather  earlier  than  usual,  they  found  nobody  in 
the  drawing-room  but  the  French  governess,  Mademoiselle 
Panache.  Helen,  it  seems,  had  conceived  a  very  sublime 
idea  of  a  French  governess;  and  when  she  first  came  into 
the  room,  she  looked  up  to  Mademoiselle  Panache  with  a 
mixture  of  awe  and  admiration.  Mademoiselle  was  not 
much  troubled  with  any  of  that  awkward  reserve  which 
seems  in  England  sometimes  to  keep  strangers  at  bay  for 
the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  of  their  acquaintance.  She 
could  not,  it  is  true,  speak  English  very  -fluently,  but  this 
only  increased  her  desire  to  speak  it ;  and  between  two  lan- 
guages she  found  means,  with  some  difficulty,  to  express 
herself.  The  conversation,  after  the  usual  preliminary 
nothings  had  been  gone  over,  turned  upon  France,  and 
French  literature ;  Mrs.  Temple  said  she  was  going  to  pur- 
chase some  French  books  for  her  daughters,  and  very 
politely  bagged  to  know  what  authors  mademoiselle  would 
particularly  recommend.  "  Vat  aufeurs!  you  do  me  much 
honour,  madame  —  Vat  auteurs !  why,  mademoiselles,  there  'a 
Telemaque  and  Belisaire." 
21 


322        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 

Helen  and  Emma  had  read  Telemaque  and  Belisaire,  so 
mademoiselle  was  obliged  to  think  again  —  "Attendez!" 
cried  she,  putting  her  fore-finger  in  an  attitude  of  recollec- 
tion. But  the  result  of  all  her  recollection  was  still  "  Beli- 
saire" and  "  Telemaque  ;"  and  an  Abbe's  book,  whose  name 
she  could  not  remember,  though  she  remembered  perfectly 
well  that  the  vork  was  published  Van  mille  six  cents  quartr** 
vingts-dix." 

Helen  could  scarcely  forbear  smiling,  so  much  was  her 
awe  and  admiration  of  a  French  governess  abated.  Mrs. 
Temple,  to  relieve  mademoiselle  from  the  perplexity  of 
searching  for  the  Abbe's  name,  and  to  avoid  the  hazard  of 
going  out  of  her  circle  of  French  literature,  mentioned  Gil 
Bias  ;  and  observed,  that,  though  it  was  a  book  universally 
put  into  the  hands  of  very  young  people,  she  thought  made- 
moiselle judged  well  in  preferring — " 

"  Oh  I"  interrupted  mademoiselle,  "je  me  trouve  bien  hen- 
reuse —  I  am  quite  happy,  madam,  to  be  of  your  way  of 
Unking  —  I  would  never  go  to  choose  to  put  Gil  Bias  into 
no  pupil's  of  mine's  hands,  until  they  were  perfectly  mis- 
tress of  de  idiome  de  la  langue." 

It  was  not  the  idiom,  but  the  morality,  of  the  book  to 
which  Mrs.  Temple  had  alluded  ;  but  that,  it  was  very  plain, 
occupied  no  part  of  Mademoiselle  Panache's  attention;  her 
object  was  solely  to  teach  her  pupil  French.  "Mais  pour 
Miladi  Augusta."  cried  she,  "  c'est  vraiment  un  petit  prodige  ! 
— You,  madam,  you  are  a  judge. —  On  le  voit  bien.  You 
know  how  much  difficile  it  be,  to  compose  French  poesie, 
because  of  de  rhymes,  de  masculin,  feminine,  de  neutre  genre 
of  noun  substantive  and  adjective,  all  to  be  consider  in  spite 
of  de  sense  in  our  rhymes. — Je  ne  m'expliqv.e  pas. — Mais 
enfin  —  de  natives  themselves  very  few  come  to  write  passably 
in  poesie,  except  it  be  your  great  poets  by  profession.  Cepen- 
dant,  madame,  Miladi  Augusta,  I  speak  de  truth,  not  one  word 
of  lies,  Miladi  Augusta  write  poesie  just  the  same  with  prose. 
Veritablement  comme  un  ange !  Et  puis  -"  continued  Made- 
moiselle  Panache 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        323 

But  she  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  "  little 
angel "  and  her  mother.  Lady  Augusta  wore  a  rose-coloured 
sash  to-day,  and  Helen  no  longer  preferred  blue  to  pink. 
Not  long  after  they  were  seated,  Lady  S***  observed  that 
her  daughter's  face  was  burned  by  being  opposite  to  the  fire  ; 
and,  after  betraying  some  symptoms  of  anxiety,  cried, 
"  Mademoiselle,  why  will  you  always  let  Augusta  sit  so 
near  the  fire  ?  My  dear,  how  can  you  bear  to  burn  your 
face  so  ?     Do  be  so  good,  for  my  sake,  to  take  a  screen." 

"  There  is  no  screen  in  the  room,  ma'am,  I  believe,"  said 
the  young  lady,  moving,  or  seeming  to  move,  her  chair  three 
quarters  of  an  inch  backwards. 

"No  screen  I"  said  Lady  S***,  looking  round;  "I 
thought,  mademoiselle,  your  screens  were  finished." 

"  Oh,  oui,  madame,  dey  he  finish  ;  hut  I  forget  to  make  dem 
come  downstairs." 

"  I  hate  embroidered  screens,"  observed  Lady  S***,  turn- 
ing away  her  head,  "for  one  is  always  afraid  to  use 
them." 

Mademoiselle  immediately  rose  to  fetch  one  of  hers. 

"  Ke  vous  derangez  pas,  mademoiselle,^  said  Lady  S***, 
carelessly ;  and  while  she  was  out  of  the  room,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Temple,  "  Have  you  a  French  governess?"  said  she; 
"  I  think  you  told  me  not." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Temple ;  "  I  have  no  thoughts  of  any 
governess  for  my  daughters." 

"Why,  indeed,  I  don't  know  but  you  are  quite  right,  for 
they  are  sad  plagues  to  have  in  one's  house ;  besides,  T 
believe,  too,  in  general,  they  are  a  sad  set  of  people.  But 
what  can  one  do,  you  know  ?  One  must  submit  to  all  that 
for  they  tell  me  there 's  no  other  way  of  securing  to  one's 
children  a  good  French  pronunciation.  How  will  you  man 
age  about  that  ?" 

"  Helen  and  Emma,"  said  Mrs.  Temple,  "  read  and  under- 
stand French  as  well  as  I  could  wish  ;  and  if  ever  they  go 
to  France,  I  hope  they  will  Ye  able  to  catch  the  accent,  as  1 


624:        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 

have  never  suffered  them  to  acquire  any  fixed  bad  habits  of 
speaking  it." 

"Oh,"  said  Lady  S***,  "bad  habits  are  what  I  dread  of 
all  things  for  Augusta.  I  assure  you  I  was  particularly 
nice  about  the  choice  of  a  governess  for  her ;  so  many  of 
these  sort  of  people  come  over  here  from  Switzerland,  or  the 
French  provinces,  and  speak  a  horrid  jargon.  It's  very 
difficult  to  meet  with  a  person  you  could  entirely  depend 
upon." 

"  Very  difficult,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Temple. 

"  However,"  continued  her  ladyship,  "I  think  myself  most 
exceedingly  fortunate  :  I  am  absolutely  certain  that  Made- 
moiselle Panache  comes  from  Paris,  and  was  born  and  edu- 
cated there ;  so  I  feel  quite  at  ease  ;  and  as  to  the  rest  " 
said  she,  lowering  her  voice,  but  only  lowering  it  sufficiently 
to  fix  Lady  Augusta's  attention,  "  as  to  the  rest,  I  shall  part 
with  her  when  my  daughter  is  a  year  or  two  older;  so,  you 
know,  she  can  do  no  great  harm.  Besides,"  said  she,  speak- 
ing louder,  "  I  really  have  great  confidence  in  her,  and  Au- 
gusta and  she  seem  to  agree  vastly  well." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  "  mademotselle  is  exceed- 
ingly good-natured ;  I  am  sure  I  like  her  vastly." 

"Well,  that's  the  chief  thing:  I  would  work  upon  a 
child's  sensibility;  that's  m}-  notion  of  education,"  said 
Lady  S***  to  Mrs.  Temple,  affecting  a  sweet  smile.  "  Take 
care  of  the  heart,  at  any  rate  —  there  I  'm  sure,  at  least,  I 
may  depend  on  Mademoiselle  Panache,  for  she  is  the  best 
creature  in  the  world!  —  I've  the  highest  opinion  of  her: 
not  that  I  would  trust  my  own  judgment,  but  she  was  most 
exceedingly  well  recommended  to  me." 

Mademoiselle  Panache  came  into  the  room  again  just  as 
Lady  S***  finished  her  last  sentence ;  she  brought  one  of 
her  own  worked  screens  in  ht;  hand.  Helen  looked  at  Lady 
Augusta,  expecting  that  she  would  at  least  have  gone  to 
meet  her  governess  ;  but  the  young  lady  never  offered  to  rise 
from  her  keat;  and  when  poor  mademoiselle  presented  the 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        325 

screen  to  her,  she  received  it  with  the  utmost  nonchalance, 
only  interrupting,  her  conversation  by  a  slight  bow  of  the 
head.  Helen  and  Emma  looked  down,  feeling  both  ashamed 
and  shocked  at  manners  which  they  could  neither  think 
kind  nor  polite.  However,  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  pupil 
should  not  be  scrupulously  respectful  towards  a  governess 
whom  her  mother  treated  like  a  waiting-maid. 

More  carriages  now  came  to  the  door,  and  the  room  was 
soon  filled  with  company.  The  young  ladies  dined  at  the 
side-table  with  Mademoiselle  Panache ;  and  during  dinner 
Emma  and  Helen  quite  won  her  heart.  "  Vbild  des  demoi- 
selles des  plus  polies !"  she  said,  with  emphasis  ;  and  it  is 
true  that  they  were  particularly  careful  to  treat  her  with 
the  greatest  attention  and  respect,  —  not  only  from  their 
general  habits  of  good-breeding  and  from  a  sense  of  pro- 
priety, but  from  a  feeling  of  pity  and  generosity:  they 
could  not  bear  to  think  that  a  person  should  be  treated  with 
neglect  or  insolence  merely  because  her  situation  and  rank 
happened  to  be  inferior. 

Mademoiselle,  pleased  with  their  manners,  was  particu- 
larly officious  in  entertaining  them ;  and,  when  the  rest  of 
the  company  sat  down  to  cards,  she  offered  to  show  them 
the  house,  which  was  large  and  magnificent. 

Helen  and  Emma  were  very  glad  to  be  relieved  from  their 
seats  beside  the  card-table,  and  from  perpetually  hearing 
of  trumps,  odd  tricks,  and  honours ;  so  that  they  eagerly 
accepted  mademoiselle's  proposal. 

The  last  room  which  they  went  into  was  Lady  Augusta's 
apartment,  in  which  her  writing-desk,  her  drawing-box,  and 
her  pianoforte  stood.  It  was  very  elegantly  furnished  ;  and 
at  one  end  was  a  handsome  book-case,  which  immediately 
attracted  Helen  and  Emma's  attention :  not  Lady  Augus- 
ta's ;  her  attention,  the  moment  she  came  into  the  room, 
was  attracted  by  a  hat  which  mademoiselle  had  been  mak- 
ing up  in  the  morning,  and  which  lay  half-finished  upon  the 
sofa.    "  Well,  really  this  is  elegant  V  said  she ;  "  certainly, 


326        MADEMOISELLE     PAUACHE. 

mademoiselle,  you  have  the  best  taste  in  the  world!  Isn't 
it  a  beautiful  hat?"  said  she,  appealing  to  Helen  and 
Emma. 

"  Oh  yes/'  replied  Helen,  instantly ;  for,  as  she  was  no 
great  judge,  she  was  afraid  to  hazard  her  opinion,  and 
thought  it  safest  to  acquiesce  in  Lady  Augusta's.  Emma, 
on  the  contrary,  who  did  not  think  the  hat  particularly 
pretty,  and  who  dared  to  think  for  herself,  was  silent ;  and 
certainly  it  requires  no  common  share  of  strength  of  mind 
to  dare  to  think  for  one's  self  about  a  hat. 

In  the  mean  time,  mademoiselle  put  the  finishing-stroke 
to  her  work ;  and,  observing  that  the  colour  of  the  riband 
would  become  Helen's  complexion  "  merveilleusement !  per- 
mittez,  mademoiselle"  said  she,  putting  it  lightly  upon  her 
head.  "  Qu'elle  est  charmante !  Qu'elle  est  bien  comme  ga ! 
Quite  another  ting!  Mademoiselle  Helen  est  charmante!" 
cried  the  governess,  with  enthusiasm  ;  and  her  pupil  echoed 
her  exclamations  with  equal  enthusiasm,  till  Helen  would 
absolutely  have  been  persuaded  that  some  sudden  metamor- 
phosis had  taken  place  in  her  appearance,  if  her  sister's 
composure  had  not  happily  preserved  her  in  her  sober 
senses.  She  could  not,  however,  help  feeling  a  sensible 
diminution  of  merit  and  happiness  when  the  hat  was  lifted 
off  her  head. 

"  What  a  very  pretty  coloured  riband !"  said  she. 

"  That's  pistachio  colour,"  said  Lady  Augusta. 

"  Pistachio  colour !"  repeated  Helen,  with  admiration. 

"  Pistachio  colour,"  repeated  her  sister,  coolly ;  "  I  did 
not  know  that  was  the  name  of  the  colour." 

"  BonDieu!"  said  mademoiselle,  lifting  up  her  hands  and 
ayes  to  heaven ;  "  bon  Dieu !  not  know  de  pistachea  co- 
lour!" 

Emma,  neither  humbled  nor  shocked  at  her  own  igno- 
rance, simply  said  to  herself,  "  Surely  it  is  no  crime  not  to 
know  a  name."  But  mademoiselle's  abhorrent  and  amazed 
look  prefaced  a  very  different  effect  upon  Helen's  imagina- 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.  327 

tion  ;  she  felt  all  the  anguish  of  false  shame,  that  dangerous 
infirmity  of  weak  minds. 

"Bon!"  said  Mademoiselle  Panache  to  herself,  observing 
the  impression  which  she  made ;  "  Voild  un  bon  sujet  an 
moins."  And  she  proceeded,  with  more  officiousness,  per- 
haps, than  politeness,  to  reform  certain  minutiae  in  Helen's 
dress,  which  were  not  precisely  adjusted  according  to  what 
she  called  the  mode;  she  having  the  misfortune  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  that  intolerant  spirit  which  admits  but  of  one 
mode  ;  a  spirit  which  is  common  to  all  persons  who  have 
seen  but  little  of  the  world,  or  of  good  company,  and  who 
consequently  cannot  perceive  the  liberality  of  sentiment 
upon  all  matters  of  taste  and  fashion  which  distinguishes 
well-bred  and  well-educated  people. 

" Pardonnez  Mademoiselle  Helen  "  said  she,  " Permittez" 
—  altering  things  to  her  fancy  —  "un  petit  plus  —  et  un  petit 
plus  ;  oui,  comme  ga  —  comme  ga.  Bien  !  —  bien  I  Ah  non  I 
Cela  est  vilain — affreux!  Mais  tenez,  toujours  comme  ga; 
resouvenez  vous  bien,  mademoiselle.  Ah,  bon  I  vous  voild, 
tnise  a  quartre  epingles  I" 

"A  quartre  epingles  I"  repeated  Helen  to  herself. 

"  Surely,"  thought  Emma,  "that  is  a  vulgar  expression  ; 
mademoiselle  is  not  as  elegant  in  her  taste  for  language  as 
for  dress."  Indeed,  two  or  three  technical  expressions 
which  afterward  escaped  from  this  lady,  joined  to  the  pro- 
digious knowledge  she  displayed  of  the  names,  qualities, 
and  value  of  ribands,  gauzes,  feathers,  &c,  had  excited  a 
strong  suspicion  in  Emma's  mind  that  Mademoiselle  Pa- 
nache herself  might  possibly  have  had  the  honour  to  be  a 
milliner. 

The  following  incident  sufficiently  confirmed  her  suspi- 
cions:—  While  mademoiselle  was  dressing  and  undressing 
Helen,  she  regularly  carried  every  pin  which  she  took  out 
to  her  mouth. 

Helen  did  not  perceive  this  manoeuvre,  it  being  performed 
with  habitual  celerity ;  but,  seeing  that  all  the  pins  were 


328        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 

vanished,  she  first  glanced  her  eye  upon  the  table,  and  then 
on  the  floor,  and  still  not  seeing  her  pins,  she  felt  in  her 
pocket  for  her  pincushion,  and  presented  it.  "  Ten  ai  assez, 
Men  obligee,  mademoiselle ;"  and  from  somp  secret  recep- 
tacle in  her  mouth  she  produced  first  one  pin.  ;hen  another, 
till  Emma  counted  seventeen,  to  her  utter  astonishment: 
more,  certainly,  than  any  mouth  could  contain  but  a  milli 
ner's." 

Unfortunately,  however,  in  mademoiselle's  haste  to  speak, 
a  pin  and  an  exclamation,  contending  in  her  mouth,  impeded 
her  utterance,  and  put  her  in  imminent  danger  of  choking. 
They  all  looked  frightened.  "  Qu'avez  vous  done!"  cried 
she,  recovering  herself  with  admirable  dexterity  —  "  qu'avez 
vous  done  !  Ce  n'est  rien  !  Ah,  si  vous  avies  vue  Mademoi- 
selle Alexandre !  Ah  !  dot  would  frighten  you,  indeed  !  Many 
de  time  I  see  her  put  one  tirty,  forty,  fifty,  —  ay,  one  hundred, 
two  hundred,  in  her  mouth  —  and  she  all  de  time  laugh,  talk, 
eat,  drink,  sleep  wid  dem,  and  no  harm,  nonobstant,  never  hap- 
pen Mademoiselle  Alexandre." 

"And  who  is  Mademoiselle  Alexandre?"  said  Emma. 

"  Eh,  done !  — fameuse  marchande  de  modes  —  rue  St.  Ho- 
nore  —  rivale  celebre  de  Mademoiselle  Baulara." 

"  Yes,  I  know  I"  said  Lady  Augusta,  delighted  to  appear 
to  know  the  names  of  two  French  milliners,  without  in  the 
least  suspecting  that  she  had  the  honour  to  have  a  third  for 
a  governess. 

Emma  smiled,  but  was  silent.  She  fortunately  possessed 
a  sound  discriminating  understanding;  observing  and  judg- 
ing for  herself,  it  was  not  easy  to  impose  upon  her  by  names 
and  grimaces. 

It  was  remarkable,  that  Mademoiselle  Panache  had  never 
once  attempted  to  alter  anything  in  Emma's  dress,  and 
directed  very  little  of  her  conversation  to  her ;  seeming  to 
have  an  intuitive  perception  that  she  could  make  no  impres- 
sion ;  and  Lady  Augusta,  too,  treated  her  with  less  fami- 
liarity, but  with  far  more  respect. 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        329 

"Dear  Helen,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  for  she  seemed,  to 
use  her  own  expression,  to  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to  hei 
— "  dear  Helen,  I  hope  you  are  to  be  at  the  ball  at  the 
races." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Helen;  "I  believe  my  mother 
intends  to  be  there." 

"  Et  vous  ?"  said  Mademoiselle  Panache,  "  you,  to  be  sure, 
I  hope ;  your  mamma  could  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  leave  you 
it  home  une  demoiselle  faite  comme  vous!" 

Helen  had  been  quite  indifferent  about  going  to  the  ball 
-ill  these  words  inspired  her  with  a  violent  desire  to  go  there, 
m  rather  with  a  violent  dread  of  the  misfortune  and  dis- 
grace of  being  left  "  at  home." 

We  shall,  for  fear  of  being  tiresome,  omit  a  long  conver- 
sation which  passed  about  the  dress  and  necessary  prepara- 
tions for  this  ball.  It  is  enough  to  say,  that  Helen  was 
struck  with. despair  at  the  idea  that  her  mother  probably 
would  not  procure  for  her  all  the  fine  things  which  Lady 
Augusta  had,  and  which  mademoiselle  assured  her  were 
absolutely  necessary  to  her  being  "  presentable."  In  par. 
ticular,  her  ambition  was  excited  by  a  splendid  watch-chain 
of  her  ladyship's,  which  Lady  Augusta  assured  her  "  there 
was  no  possibility  of  living  without." 

Emma,  however,  reflecting  that  she  had  lived  all  her  life 
without  even  wishing  for  a  watch-chain,  was  inclined  to 
doubt  the  accuracy  of  her  ladyship's  assertion. 

In  the  mean  time  poor  Helen  fell  into  a  profound  and 
somewhat  painful  revery.  She  stood,  with  the  watch-chain 
in  her  hand,  ruminating  upon  the  vast,  infinite  number  of 
things  she  wanted,  to  complete  her  happiness  —  things  of 
which  she  had  never  thought  before.  Indeed,  during  the 
short  time  she  had  been  in  the  company  of  Mademoiselle 
Panache,  a  new  world  seemed  to  have  been  opened  to  her 
imagination  —  new  wants,  new  wishes,  new  notions  of  right 
and  wrong,  and  a  totally  new  idea  of  excellence  and  happi- 
ness had  taken  possession  of  her  mind. 


830        MADEMOISELLE     PA  K  ACHE. 

So  much  mischief  may  be  done  by  a  silly  governess  ±n  a 
single  quarter  of  an  hour !  —  But  we  are  yet  to  see  more  of 
the  genius  of  Mademoiselle  Panache  for  education.  It  hap- 
pened that,  while  the  young  ladies  were  busily  talking  toge- 
ther, she  had  gotten  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  was 
busily  engaged  at  a  looking-glass,  receding  and  advancing 
by  turns,  to  decide  the  exact  distance  at  which  rcuge  was 
liable  to  detection.  Keeping  her  eye  upon  the  mirror,  she 
went  backwards  and  backwards,  until  unluckily  she  chanced 
to  set  her  foot  upon  Lady  Augusta's  favourite  little  dog, 
who  instantly  sent  forth  a  piteous  yell. 

"Oh!  my  dog!  —  Oh!  my  dog!"  exclaimed  Lady  Au- 
gusta, running  to  the  dog,  and  taking  it  into  her  lap  —  "  Oh, 
chere  Fanfan!  —  where  is  it  hurt,  my  poor,  dear,  sweet, 
darling  little  creature  2" 

"  Chere  Fanfan  !"  cried  mademoiselle,  kneeling  down, 
and  kissing  the  offended  paw,  " pardonnez,  Fanfan  !"  —  and 
they  continued  caressing  and  pitying  Fanfan,  so  as  to  give 
Helen  a  very  exalted  opinion  of  their  sensibility,  and  to  make 
her  wiser  sister  doubt  of  its  sincerity. 

Longer  would  Fanfan  have  been  deplored  with  all  the 
pathos  of  feminine  fondness,  had  not  mademoiselle  suddenly 
shrieked,  and  started  up.  "What's  the  matter?  —  what's 
the  matter  V  cried  they  all  at  once.  The  affrighted  gover- 
ness, pointing  to  her  pupil's  sash,  exclaimed,  "  Regardez ! 
—  regardez  !"  There  was  a  moderate-sized  spider  upon  the 
young  lady's  sash.  "La  voild!  ah,  la  voild!"  cried  she,  at 
an  awful  distance. 

"It  is  only  a  spider,"  said  Emma. 

"A  spider!"  said  Lady  Augusta,  and  threw  Fanfan  from 
her  lap  as  she  rose  ;  "  where  ?  —  where  ?  —  on  my  sash  ?" 

"  I  '11  shake  it  off,"  said  Helen. 

"  Oh  !  snake  it,  shake  it !"  —  and  she  shook  it  herself  till 
the  spider  fell  to  the  ground,  which  seemed  to  be  almost  as 
much  frightened  as  Lady  Augusta,  and  was  making  his 
way  as  fast  as  possible  from  the  field  of  baft  la. 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        331 

"  Ou  est  il  ?  —  oil  est  il  t  —  Le  mlain  animal  /"  —  cried 
mademoiselle,  advancing.  "Ah,  que  je  Vecraise  au  moim," 
said  she,  having  her  foot  prepared. 

"Kill  it!  —  0,  mademoiselle,  don't  kill  it,"  said  Emma 
stooping  down  to  save  it;  "1*11  put  it  out  of  the  window" 
this  instant." 

"  Ah  !  how  can  you  touch  it I"  said  Lady  Augusta  with 
disgust,  while  Emma  carried  it  carefully  in  her  hand  ;  and 
Helen,  whose  humanity  was  still  proof  against  Mademoi- 
selle Panache,  ran  to  open  the  window.  Just  as  ti.\ey  had 
got  the  poor  spider  out  of  the  reach  of  its  enemies,  a  sudden 
gust  of  wind  blew  it  back  again ;  it  fell  once  more  upon  the 
floor. 

"  0,  kill  it !  —  kill  it,  anybody  !  —  for  heaven's  sake,  do 
kill  it  !"  —  Mademoiselle  pressed  forward  and  crushed  the 
animal  to  death. 

"  Is  it  dead  ?  quite  dead  ?"  said  her  pupil,  approaching 
timidly. 

"  Avancez  /"  said  her  governess,  laughing  —  "  Que  craig- 
nez  vous  done  t  —  Elle  est  mort,  je  vous  dis." 

The  young  lady  looked  at  the  entrails  of  the  spider,  and 
was  satisfied. 

So  much  for  a  lesson  on  humanity. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  effects  of  this  scene  were 
effaced  from  the  minds  of  either  of  the  sisters  ;  but  at  length 
a  subject  very  interesting  to  Helen  was  started.  Lady  Au- 
gusta mentioned  the  little  ebony  box,  which  had  been  put 
into  the  coach,  and  Miss  Helen's  very  obliging  note. 

However,  though  she  affected  to  be  pleased,  it  was  evi- 
dent, by  the  haughty  carelessness  of  her  manner,  while  she 
returned  her  thanks,  that  she  was  rather  offended  than 
obliged  by  the  present. 

Helen  was  surprised  and  mortified.  The  times,  she  per- 
ceived, were  changed  since  the  days  of  Aboulcasem. 

"  I  am  particularly  distressed,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  who 
often  \ssumed  the  language  of  a  woman,  "  I  am  particu- 


332        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 

larly  distressed  to  rob  you  of  your  pretty  prints ;  especially 
as  my  uncle  has  just  sent  me  down  a  set  of  Bartolozzi's 
from  town." 

"But  I  hope,  Lady  Augusta,  you  liked  the  little  prints 
*  which  are  cut  out.  I  think  you  said  you  wished  for  some 
such  things,  to  put  on  a  work-basket." 

"Oh,  yes;  I'm  sure  I'm  exceedingly  obliged  to  you  for 
remembering  that,  —  I  had  quite  forgotten  it;  but  I  found 
some  beautiful  vignettes  the  other  day  in  our  French  books, 
and  I  shall  set  about  copying  them  for  my  basket  directly. 
I'll  show  them  to  you  if  you  please,"  said  she,  going  to  the 
book-case.  "Mademoiselle,  do  be  so  good  as  to  reach  for 
me  those  little  books  in  the  morocco  binding." 

Mademoiselle  got  upon  a  stool,  and  touched  several  books 
one  after  another,  for  she  could  not  translate  morocco  bind- 
ing." 

"  Which  did  you  mean  ?  —  Dis  —  dis  —  dis  or  dot  ?"  said 
she. 

"  No,  no  —  none  of  those,  mademoiselle ;  not  in  that  row. 
Look  just  above  your  hand,  in  the  second  row  from  the  top." 

"  0,  no  ;  not  in  dat  row,  I  hope." 

"  Why  not  there  ?" 

"  0,  Miladi  Augusta,  vous  sgaves  bien —  ce  sont  la  les  livres 
defendus  —  I  dare  not  touch  one  —  vous  le  sgaves  bien, 
miladi,  voire  chere  mere." 

"  Miladi,  voire  chere  mere !"  repeated  the  young  lady, 
mimicking  her  governess  —  "  pooh,  nonsense,  give  me  the 
books." 

*'  Eh,  non  —  absolument  non  —  Croyez  moi,  mademoiselle, 
de  book  is  not  good.  Ce  n' est  pas  eomme  ilfaut !  it  is  not  Jit 
for  young  ladies  — for  nobody  to  read." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  so  well,  mademoiselle  ?" 

" N'importe,"  said  mademoiselle,  colouring;  4i  n'importe 
— je  le  scais.  But,  not  to  talk  of  dat,  you  know  I  cannot  dis- 
obey miladi ;  de  row  of  Romans  she  forbid  to  be  touch,  on  no 
account,  by  nobody  but  herself  in  de  house.  —  You  know  dis, 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        333 

Mademoiselle  Augusta. — So,  en  conscience"  said  she,  descend- 
ing from  the  stool 

"En  conscience!"  repeated  Lady  Augusta,  with  the  kn  pa» 
tient  accent  of  one  not  used  to  be  opposed,  "  I  can't  help 
admiring  the  tenderness  of  ycur  conscience,  Mademoiselle 
Panache.  Now,  would  you  believe  it?"  continued  she,  turn- 
ing to  Emma  and  Helen,  —  "now,  would  you  believe  it? 
mademoiselle  has  had  the  second  volume  of  that  very  boot- 
under  her  pillow  this  fortnight ;  I  caught  her  reading  it  one 
morning,  and  that  was  what  made  me  so  anxious  to  see  it; 
or  else,  ten  to  one  I  never  should  have  thought  of  the  book : 
so,  en  conscience  I  mademoiselle." 

Mademoiselle  coloured  furiously. 

"  Mais  vraiment,  Miladi  Augusta,  vous  me  manquez  en 
face /" 

The  young  lady  made  no  reply,  but  sprang  upon  the  stool, 
to  reach  the  books  for  herself;  and  the  governess,  deeming 
it  prudent  not  to  endanger  her  authority  by  an  ineffectual 
struggle  for  victory,  thought  proper  to  sound  a  timely 
retreat. 

"Allons!  mademoiselles,"  cried  she,  "I  fancy  de  tea  wait 
by  dis  time, — descendons ;"  and  she  led  the  way.  Emma 
instantly  followed  her. 

"  Stay  a  moment  for  me,  Helen,  my  dear/' 

Helen  hesitated. 

"  Then  you  won't  take  down  the  books  ?"  said  she. 

11  Nay,  one  moment ;  just  let  me  show  you  the  vignette." 

"No,  no,  —  pray  don't;  mademoiselle  said  you  must 
lot." 

<;  Yes,  she  said  I  must  not ;  but  you  see  she  went  away 
that  I  might;  and  so  I  will,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  jumping 
off  the  stool  with  the  red  books  in  her  hand.  "Now,  look 
here." 

"0,  no  ;  I  can't  stay,  indeed  !"  said  Helen,  pulling  away 
her  hand. 

"  La !  what  a  child  y  )u  are  !"  said  Lady  Augusta,  laugh* 


334        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE, 

ing ;  "  it  '$  mamma  shan't  be  angry  with  it,  she  shan't.  La! 
what  harm  can  there  be  in  looking  at  a  vignette  ?" 

"  Why,  to  be  sure  there  can  be  no  harm  in  looking  at  a 
vignette,"  said  Helen,  submitting  from  the  same  species  of 
false  shame  which  had  conquered  her  understanding  before 
about  the  pistachio  colour. 

"  "Well,  look !"  said  Lady  Augusta,  opening  the  book, 
"isn't  this  exceedingly  pretty?" 

"  Exceedingly  pretty,"  said  Helen,  scarce  seeing  it ;  "  now 
shall  we  go  down  ?" 

"  No,  stay ;  as  you  think  that  pretty,  I  can  show  you  a 
much  prettier." 

"  Well,  only  one,  then." 

But  when  she  had  seen  that,  Lady  Augusta  still  said, 
"  One  other,"  and  "  one  other,"  till  she  had  gone  through  a 
volume  and  a  half;  Helen  all  the  while  alternately  hesitat- 
ing and  yielding,  out  of  pure  weakness  and  mauvaise  horde. 

The  vignettes,  in  fact,  were  not  extraordinarily  beautiful ; 
nor,  if  they  had  been,  would  she  have  taken  the  least  plea- 
sure in  seeing  them  in  such  a  surreptitious  manner.  She 
did  not,  however,  see  all  the  difficulties  into  which  this  first 
deviation  from  proper  conduct  would  lead  her.  Alas !  no 
one  ever  can ! 

Just  when  they  were  within  three  leaves  of  the  end  of  the 
last  volume,  they  heard  voices  upon  the  stairs. 

"  There  's  my  mother !  —  They  're  coming !  — What  shall 
we  do?"  cried  lady  Augusta ;  and  though  there  could  be 
"  no  harm  in  looking  at  a  print "  yet  the  colour  now  forsook 
her  cheek,  and  she  stood  the  picture  of  guilt  and  cowardice. 
There  was  not  time  to  put  the  books  up  in  their  places. 
What  was  to  be  done  ? 

"  Put  tbem  into  our  pockets,"  said  Lady  Augusta. 

"  0,  no,  no !  —  I  won't  —  I  can't  —  what  meanness !" 

"  But  you  must.  I  can't  get  them  both  into  mine,"  said 
Lady  Augusta,  in  great  distress  "  Dear,  dear  Helen,  for 
my  sake !" 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.         335 

Helen  trembled,  and  let  Lady  Augusta  put  the  book  into 
her  pocket. 

"My  dear,"  said  Lady  S***,  opening  the  door  just  as 
this  operation  was  effected,  "  we  are  come  to  see  your  room  j 
will  you  let  us  in?" 

"  0  certainly,  madam,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  commanding 
a  smile ;  but  Helen's  face  was  covered  with  so  deep  a  crim- 
son, and  she  betrayed  such  evident  symptoms  of  embarrass- 
ment, that  her  mother,  who  came  up  with  the  rest  of  the 
company,  could  not  help  taking  notice  of  it. 

"  Arn't  you  well,  Helen,  my  dear  ?"  said  her  mother. 

Helen  attempted  no  answer. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  "  it  was  the  grapes  after 
dinner  which  disagreed  with  you." 

Helen  refused  the  look  of  assent  which  was  expected ; 
and  at  this  moment  she  felt  the  greatest  contempt  for  Lady 
Augusta,  and  terror  to  see  herself  led  on  step  by  step  in 
deceit. 

"  My  love,  indeed  you  do  n't  look  well,"  said  Lady  S***, 
in  a  tone  of  pity. 

"It  must  be  de  grapes!"  said  mademoiselle. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Helen,  who  felt  inexpressible  shame 
and  anguish,  "no,  indeed,  it  is  not  the  grapes;"  turning 
away,  and  looking  up  to  her  mother  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

She  was  upon  the  point  of  producing  the  book  before  all 
the  company ;  but  Lady  Augusta  pressed  her  arm,  and  she 
forbore, — for  she  thought  it  would  be  dishc  aaourable  to 
betray  her. 

Mrs.  Temple  did  not  choose  to  question  her  daughter  fur- 
ther at  this  time,  and  reli*  ved  her  from  confusion  by  turn- 
ing to  something  else. 

As  they  went  down-stairs  to  tea,  Lady  Augusta,  with  fami- 
liar fondness,  took  Helen's  hand. 

"  You  need  not  fear,"  said  Helen,  withdrawing  her  hand 
coldly ;  "  I  shall  not  betray  you,  Augusta  " 

♦'You'll  promise  me  that?" 


336        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 

"  Yes,"  said  Helen,  with  a  feeling  of  contempt. 

After  tea,  Lady  Augusta  was  requested  to  sit  down  to  the 
pianoforte,  and  favour  the  company  with  an  Italian  song. 
She  sat  down,  and  played  with  the  greatest  ease  and  gayety 
imaginable ;  while  Helen,  incapable  of  feeling,  still  more 
incapable  of  affecting,  gayety,  stood  beside  the  harpsichord, 
her  eyes  bowed  down  with  "penetrative  shame." 

"  Why  do  you  look  so  woe-begone  ?"  said  Lady  Augusta, 
as  she  stooped  for  a  music-book ;  "  why  do  n't  you  look  as  I 
do?" 

"  I  can't,"  said  Helen. 

Her  ladyship  did  not  feel  the  force  of  this  answer ;  for 
her  own  self-approbation  could,  it  seems,  be  recovered  at  a 
very  cheap  rate  —  half  a  dozen  strangers  listening,  with 
ynmeaning  smiles  and  encomiums,  to  her  execution  of  one 
of  dementi's  lessons,  were  sufficient  to  satisfy  her  ambition. 
Nor  is  this  surprising,  when  all  her  education  tended  to 
teach  her,  that  what  are  called  accomplishments  are  supe- 
rior to  everything  else.  Her  drawings  were  next  to  be  pro- 
duced and  admired.  The  table  was  presently  covered  with 
fruit,  flowers,  landscapes,  men's,  women's,  and  children's 
heads  ;  while  mademoiselle  was  suffered  to  stand  holding  a 
large  portfolio  till  she  was  ready  to  faint ;  nor  was  she,  per- 
haps, the  only  person  in  the  company  who  was  secretly  tired 
of  the  exhibition. 

These  eternal  exhibitions  of  accomplishments  have  of  lat 
become  private  nuisances.   Let  young  women  cultivate  thei 
tastes  or  their  understandings  in  any  manner  that  can  affoi 
them  agreeable  occupation,  or,  in  one  word,  that  can  mak<! 
them  happy  ;  if  they  are  wise,  they  will  early  make  it  their 
object   to  be   permanently   happy,  and   not  merely  to 
admired  for  a  few  hours  of  their  existence. 

All  this  time  pour  Helen  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
book  which  she  had  been  persuaded  to  secrete.  It  grew 
late  in  the  evening,  and  Helen  grew  more  and  more  uneasy 
at  not  having  any  opportunity  of  returning  it.     Lady  Au- 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        337 

gusr*  was  so  busy  talking  and  receiving  compliments,  that 
it  was  impossible  to  catch  her  eye. 

At  length  Mrs.  Temple's  carriage  was  ordered ;  and  now 
all  the  company  were  seated  in  form,  and  Helen  saw,  with 
the  greatest  distress,  that  she  was  further  than  ever  from 
her  purpose.  She  once  had  a  mind  to  call  her  mother  aside, 
and  consult  her ;  but  that  she  could  not  do,  on  account  of 
her  promise. 

The  carriage  came  to  the  door ;  and  while  Helen  put  on 
her  cloak,  mademoiselle  assisted  her,  so  that  she  could  not 
speak  to  Lady  Augusta.  At  last,  when  she  was  taking  leave 
of  her,  she  said,  "Will  you  let  me  give  you  the  book?"  and 
half-drew  it  from  her  pocket. 

"  0,  goodness  !  not  now ;  I  can't  take  it  now." 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Why,  take  it  home  and  send  it  back  directed  to  me  — 
remember  —  by  the  first  opportunity  —  when  you  have  done 
with  it," 

"  Done  with  it !  I  have  done  with  it.  Indeed,  Lady  Au- 
gusta, you  must  let  me  give  it  you  now." 

"  Come,  Helen,  we  are  waiting  for  you,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Temple  ;  and  Helen  was  hurried  into  the  carriage  with 
the  book  still  in  her  pocket.  Thus  was  she  brought  from 
one  difficulty  into  another. 

Now  she  had  promised  her  mother  never  to  borrow  any 
book  without  her  knowledge  ;  and  certainly  she  had  not  the 
slightest  intention  to  forfeit  her  word,  when  she  first  was 
persuaded  to  look  at  the  vignettes.  "  Oh,"  said  she  to  her- 
self, "  where  will  all  this  end  ?  What  shall  I  do  now  ?  Why 
was  I  so  weak  as  to  stay  and  look  at  the  prints  ?  And  why 
did  I  fancy  I  should  like  Lady  Augusta,  before  I  knew  any- 
thing of  her  ?  Oh,  how  much  I  wish  I  had  never  seen 
her!" 

Occupied  by  these  thoughts  all  the  way  they  were  going 
home,  Helen,  we  may  imagine,  did  not  appear  as  cheerful, 
or  as  much  at  ease,  as  usual.  Her  mother  and  her  sister 
22 


338 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 


were  conversing  very  agreeably  ;  but  if  she  had  been  asked, 
when  the  carriage  stopped,  she  could  not  have  told  a  single 
syllable  of  what  they  had  been  saying. 

Mrs.  Temple  perceived  that  something  hung  heavy  upon 
her  daughter's  mind ;  but,  trusting  to  her  long  habits  of 
candour  and  integrity,  she  was  determined  to  leave  her 
entirely  at  liberty :  she  therefore  wished  her  a  good-night, 
without  inquiring  into  the  cause  of  her  melancholy. 

Helen  scarcely  knew  what  it  was  to  lie  awake  at  night ; 
she  generally  slept  soundly  from  the  moment  she  went  to 
bed  till  the  morning,  and  then  wakened  as  gay  as  a  lark: 
but  now  it  was  quite  otherwise ;  she  lay  awake,  uneasy  and 
restless,  her  pillow  was  wet  with  tears,  she  turned  from  side 
to  side,  but  in  vain ;  it  was  the  longest  night  she  ever 
remembered  ;  she  wished  a  thousand  times  for  morning,  but 
when  the  morning  came,  she  got  up  with  a  very  heavy 
heart ;  all  her  usual  occupations  had  lost  their  charms  ;  and 
what  she  felt  the  most  painful  was,  her  mother's  kind,  open, 
unsuspicious  manner.  She  had  never,  at  least  she  had 
never  for  many  years,  broken  her  word ;  she  had  long  felt 
the  pleasure  of  integrity,  and  knew  how  to  estimate  its 
loss. 

"  And  for  what,"  said  Helen  to  herself,  "  have  I  forfeited 
this  pleasure  ?  for  nothing." 

But,  besides  this,  she  was  totally  at  a  loss  to  know  what 
step  she  was  to  take  ;  nor  could  she  consult  the  friends  she 
had  always  been  accustomed  to  apply  to  for  advice.  Two 
ideas  of  honour,  two  incompatible  ideas,  were  struggling  in 
her  mind.  She  thought  that  she  should  not  betray  her  com- 
panion, and  she  knew  she  ought  not  to  deceive  her  mother. 
She  was  fully  resolved  never  to  open  the  book  which  she 
had  in  her  pocket,  but  yet  she  was  to  keep  it  she  knew  not 
how  long.  Lady  Augusta  had  desired  her  to  send  it  home ; 
but  she  did  not  see  how  this  was  to  be  accomplished,  with 
out  having  recourse  to  the  secret  assistance  of  servants,  —  a 
species  of  meanness  to  which  she  had  never  stooped     Sho 


MADEMOISELLE     FA.UCHE.  330 

thought  she  saw  herself  involved  in  inextricable  difficulties. 
She  knew  not  what  to  do  ;  she  laid  her  head  down  upon  hei 
arms,  and  wept  bitterly. 

Her  mother  just  then  came  into  the  room  —  "Helen,  my 
dear,"  said  she,  without  taking  any  notice  of  her  tears, 
"here's  a  fan,  which  one  of  the  servants  just  brought  out 
of  the  carriage ;  I  find  it  was  left  there  by  accident  all 
night. 

"  The  man  tells  me,  that  Mademoiselle  Panache  put  it 
into  the  front  pocket,  and  said  it  was  a  present  from  Lady 
Augusta  to  Miss  Helen."     It  was  a  splendid  French  fan. 

"Oh,"  said  Helen,  "I  can't  take  it!  I  can't  take  any 
present  from  Lady  Augusta — I  wish — " 

"You  wish,  perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Temple,  smiling,  "that 
you  had  not  begun  the  traffic  of  presents ;  but  since  you 
have,  it  would  not  be  handsome,  it  would  not  be  proper,  to 
refuse  the  fan." 

"But  I  must!  I  will  refuse  it!"  said  Helen.  "Oh, 
mother !  you  do  n't  know  how  unhappy  I  am !"  She 
paused.  "  Did  n't  you  see  that  something  was  the  matter, 
madam,  when  you  came  up  yesterday  into  Lady  Augusta's 
room?" 

"  Yes,"  said  her  mother,  "  I  did :  but  I  did  not  choose  to 
inquire  the  cause ;  I  thought  if  you  had  wished  I  should 
know  it,  that  you  would  have  told  it  to  me.  You  are  now 
old  enough,  Helen,  to  be  treated  with  confidence." 

"  No,"  said  Helen,  bursting  into  tears,  "  I  am  not— indeed 
I  am  not — I  have — but,  oh,  mother ! — the  worst  of  all  is, 
fchat  I  do  n't  know  whether  I  should  tell  you  anything 
about  it  or  not  —  I  ought  not  to  betray  anybody,  ought  I?" 

"Certainly  not:  and  as  ti  me,  the  desire  you  now  show 
to  be  sincere  is  enough;  you  are  perfectly  at  liberty:  if  I 
can  assist  to  advise  you,  my  dear,  I  will ;  but  I  do  not  want 
to  force  any  secret  from  you :  do  what  you  think  right  and 
honourable." 

"  But  I  have  done  what  is  very  dishonourable,"  said  Helen. 


340        MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE. 

"  At  least  I  may  tell  you  all  that  concerns  myself.  I  am 
afraid  you  will  think  I  have  broken  my  promise/'  said  she, 
Irawing  the  book  from  her  pocket.  "  I  have  brought  home 
this  book."  She  paused,  and  seemed  to  wait  for  her 
mother's  reproaches:  but  her  mother  was  silent;  she  did 
Mot  look  angry,  but  surprised  and  sorry. 

"  Is  this  all  you  wished  to  say  ?" 

"  All  that  I  can  say,"  replied  Helen.  "  Perhaps,  if  you 
heard  the  whole  story,  you  might  think  me  less  to  blame ; 
but  I  cannot  tell  it  to  you.  I  hope  you  will  not  ask  me  any 
more." 

"  No,"  said  her  mother ;  "  that,  I  assure  you,  I  will  not." 

"And  now,  mother,  will  you  —  and  you'll  set  my  heart 
at  ease  again  —  will  you  tell  me  what  I  shall  do  with  the 
book?" 

"  That  I  cannot  possibly  do.  I  cannot  advise  when  I 
do  n't  know  the  circumstances :  I  pity  you,  Helen,  but  I 
cannot  help  you  ;  you  must  judge  for  yourself." 

Helen,  after  some  deliberation,  resolved  to  write  a  note 
to  Lady  Augusta,  and  to  ask  her  mother  to  send  it. 

Her  mother  sent  it  without  looking  at  the  direction. 

"  Oh,  mother !  how  good  you  are  to  me !"  said  Helen ; 
"  and  now,  madam,  what  shall  be  my  punishment?" 

"  It  will  be  a  very  severe  punishment,  I  'm  afraid ;  but  it 
is  not  in  my  power  to  help  it :  my  confidence  in  you  does 
not  depend  upon  myself;  it  must  always  depend  upon  you." 

*  Oh  !  have  I  lost  your  confidence  ?" 

"  Not  lost,  but  lessened  it,"  said  her  mother.  "  I  cannot 
possibly  feel  the  same  confidence  in  you  now  that  I  did  yes- 
terday morning ;  I  cannot  feel  the  same  dependence  upon 
a  person  who  has  deceived  me,  as  upon  one  who  never  had 
—  could  you  ?" 

"  No,  certainly,"  said  Helen,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Oh  !"  said  she  to  herself,  "  if  Lady  Augusta  knew  the 
pain  she  has  cost  me !  But  I  'm  sure,  however,  she  '11  tell 
her  mother  all  the  affair,  when  she  reads  my  note." 


MADEMOISELLE     PANACHE.        34i 

Helen's  note  contained  much  eloquence  and  more  simpli- 
city ;  but  as  to  the  effect  upon  Lady  Augusta,  she  calculated 
ill.  No  answer  was  returned  but  a  few  ostensible  lines :  — 
"  Lady  Augusta's  compliments,  and  she  was  happy  to  hear 
Miss  Helen  T.  was  better,"  &c.  And,  strange  to  tell !  when 
they  met  about  three  weeks  after  at  a  ball  in  town,  Lady 
Augusta  did  not  think  proper  to  take  any  notice  of  Helen 
or  Emma.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  never  seen  them  before, 
and  by  a  haughty  stare,  for  girls  can  stare  now  almost  as 
well  as  women,  cancelled  all  her  former  expressions  of 
friendship  for  her  "  dear  Helen."  It  is  to  be  observed,  that 
she  was  now  in  company  with  two  or  three  young  ladies  of 
higher  rank,  whom  she  thought  more  fashionable,  and  con- 
sequently more  amiable. 

Mrs.  Temple  was  by  no  means  sorry  to  find  this  intimacy 
between  Lady  Augusta  and  her  daughter  dissolved. 

"  I  am  sure  the  next  time,"  said  Helen,  "  I  '11  take  care 
not  to  like  a  stranger  merely  for  having  a  blue  sash." 

"  But,  indeed,"  said  Emma,  "  I  do  think  Mademoiselle 
Panache,  from  all  I  saw  of  her,  is  to  blame  for  many  of 
Lady  Augusta's  defects." 

"For  all  of  them,  I'll  answer  f}r  it,"  said  Helen;  "1 
would  not  have  a  French  governess  for  the  world.  Lady 
S***  might  well  say,  they  were  a  sad  set  of  people." 

"  That  was  too  general  an  expression,  Helen,"  said  Mrs 
Temple  ;  "  and  it  is  neither  wise  nor  just  to  judge  of  any 
set  of  people  by  an  individual,  whether  that  individual  be 
good  or  bad.  All  French  governesses  are  not  like  Mademoi- 
selle Panache." 

Helen  corrected  her  expression ;  and  said,  "  Well,  I  mean, 
I  would  not  for  the  world  have  such  a  governess  as  Made- 
moiselle Panache  I" 

[The  Second  Part  of  Mademoiselle  Panache  is  given  in  Miss  Edgo 
worth's  "Moral  Tales/'] 


THE  BASKET. WOMAN. 


*•  Toate  leur  etude  6toit  de  se  complaire  et  de  s'entr'aider." 

Paul  et  Virginje. 
Their  whole  study  was  how  to  please  and  to  help  one  another. 


At  the  foot  of  a  steep  slippery  white  hill,  near  Dunstable, 
in  Bedfordshire,  called  Chalk  Hill,  there  is  a  hut,  or  rather 
a  hovel,  which  travellers  would  scarcely  suppose  could  be 
inhabited,  if  they  did  not  see  the  smoke  rising  from  its 
peaked  roof.  An  old  woman  lives  in  this  hovel,  and  with 
her  a  little  boy  and  girl,  the  children  of  a  beggar,  who  died, 
and  left  these  orphans  perishing  with  hunger.  They  thought 
themselves  very  happy  the  first  time  the  good  old  woman 
took  them  into  her  hut,  bid  them  warm  themselves  at  her 
small  fire,  and  gave  them  a  crust  of  mouldy  bread  to  eat; 
she  had  not  much  to  give,  but  what  she  had  she  gave  with 
good-will.  She  was  very  kind  to  these  poor  children,  and 
worked  hard  at  her  spinning-wheel  and  at  her  knitting,  to 
support  herself  and  them.  She  earned  money  also  in  ano- 
ther way :  she  used  to  follow  all  the  carriages  as  they  went 
up  Chalk  Hill,  and  when  the  horses  stopped  to  take  breath, 
or  to  rest  themselves,  she  put  stones  under  the  carriage- 
wheels,  to  prevent  them  from  rolling  backwards  down  the 
steep  slippery  hill. 

The  little  boy  and  girl  loved  to  stand  beside  the  good- 
natured  old  woman's  spinning-wheel,  when  she  was  spin- 
ning, and  to  talk  to  her.  At  these  times  she  taught  them 
something  which  she  said  she  hoped  they  would  remember 
<U1  their  lives :  she  explained  to  them  what  is  meant  by 

(342) 


THE     BASKET- WOMAN.  843 

telling  the  truth,  and  what  it  is  to  be  honest ;  she  taught 
them  to  dislike  idleness,  and  to  wish  that  they  could  be 
useful. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  standing  beside  her,  the  little 
boy  said  to  her,  "Grandmother,"  —  for  that  was  the  name 
by  which  she  liked  that  these  children  should  call  her  — 
"  grandmother,  how  often  you  are  forced  to  get  up  from 
your  spinning-wheel,  and  to  follow  the  chaises  and  coaches 
up  that  steep  hill,  to  put  stones  under  the  wheels,  to  hinder 
them  from  rolling  back !  The  people  who  are  in  the  car- 
riages give  you  a  half-penny  or  a  penny  for  doing  this, 
do  n't  they  ?" 

"  Yes,  child."  —  "  But  it  is  very  hard  work  for  you  to  go 
up  and  down  that  hill :  you  often  say  that  you  are  tired, 
and  then  you  know  that  you  cannot  spin  all  that  time.  Now, 
if  we  might  go  up  the  hill,  and  put  the  stones  behind  the 
wheels,  you  could  sit  still  at  your  work  ;  and  would  not  the 
people  give  us  the  half-pence  ?  and  could  not  we  bring  them 
all  to  you?  Do,  pray,  dear  grandmother,  try  us  for  one 
day ! — to-morrow,  will  you  ?"  —  "  Yes,"  said  the  old  woman, 
"  I  will  try  what  you  can  do ;  but  I  must  go  up  the  hill 
along  with  you  for  the  first  two  or  three  times,  for  fear  you 
should  get  yourselves  hurt."  So  the  next  day  the  little  boy 
and  girl  went  with  their  grandmother,  as  they  used  to  call 
her,  up  the  steep  hill ;  and  she  showed  the  boy  how  to  pre 
vent  the  wheels  from  rolling  back,  by  putting  stones  behind 
them  ;  and  she  said,  "  This  is  called  scotching  the  wheels  ;" 
and  she  took  off  the  boy's  hat,  and  gave  it  to  the  little  girl, 
to  hold  up  to  the  carriage-windows,  ready  for  the  half-pence. 
When  she  thought  that  the  children  knew  how  to  manage 
for  themselves,  she  left  them  and  returned  to  her  spinning- 
wheel.  A  great  many  carriages  happened  to  go  by  tin* 
day,  and  the  little  girl  received  a  great  many  half-pence ; 
she  carried  them  all  in  her  brother's  hat  to  her  grandmo- 
ther, in  the  evening ;  and  the  old  woman  smiled,  and 
thanked  the  children:  she  said  that  they  had  been  useful 


344  THE     BASKET-WOMAN. 

to  her,  and  that  her  spinning  had  gone  on  finely,  becar.se  she 
had  been  able  to  sit  still  at  her  wheel  all  day ;  "  But,  Paul, 
my  boy,"  said  she,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  your 
hand?" 

"  Only  a  pinch  —  only  one  pinch,  that  I  got  as  I  was  put- 
ting a  stone  behind  the  wheel  of  a  chaise.  It  does  not  hurfr 
me  much,  grandmother ;  and  I  've  thought  of  a  good  thing 
for  to-morrow ;  I  shall  never  be  hurt  again,  if  you  will  only 
be  so  good  as  to  give  me  the  old  handle  of  the  broken  crutch, 
grandmother,  and  the  block  of  wood  that  lies  in  the  chim- 
ney-corner, and  that  is  of  no  use  ;  I  '11  make  it  of  some  use, 
if  I  may  have  it." 

"Take  it,  then,  dear,"  said  the  old  woman,  "and  you'll 
find  the  handle  of  the  broken  crutch  under  my  bed." 

Paul  went  to  work  immediately,  and  fastened  one  end  of 
the  pole  into  the  block  of  wood,  so  as  to  make  something 
like  a  dry  rubbing-brush.  "  Look,  grandmother,  look  at 
my  scotcher;  I  call  this  thing  my  scotcher,"  said  Paul, 
"  because  I  shall  always  scotch  the  wheels  with  it :  I  shall 
never  pinch  my  fingers  again  ;  my  hands,  you  see,  will  be 
safe  at  the  end  of  this  long  stick ;  and,  sister  Anne,  you 
need  not  be  at  the  trouble  of  carrying  any  more  stones  after 
me  up  the  hill ;  we  shall  never  want  stones  any  more ;  my 
scotcher  will  do  without  anything  else,  I  hope.  I  wish  it 
was  morning,  and  that  a  carriage  would  come,  that  I  might 
run  up  the  hill,  and  try  my  scotcher."  —  "  And  I  wish  that 
as  many  chaises  may  go  by  to-morrow  as  there  did  to-day, 
and  that  we  may  bring  you  as  many  half-pence,  too,  grand- 
mother," said  the  little  girl.  "  So  do  I,  my  dear  Anne," 
said  the  old  woman  ;  "  for  I  mean  that  you  and  your  bro- 
ther shall  have  all  the  money  that  you  get  to-morrow:  you 
may  buy  some  gingerbread  for  yourselves,  or  some  of  those 
ripe  plums  that  you  saw  at  the  fruit-stall  the  other  day, 
which  is  just  going  into  Dunstable.  I  told  you  then  that  I 
could  not  afford  to  buy  such  things  for  you ;  but  now  that 
you  can  earn  half-pence  fur  yourselves,  children,  it  is  fair 


THE     BASKET-WOMAN.  345 

that  you  should  taste  a  ripe  plum  and  a  bit  of  gingerbread 
for  once  in  your  lives,  —  and  away,  dears." 

"We'll  bring  some  of  the  gingerbread  home  to  her, 
shan't  we,  brother?"  whispered  little  Anne.  The  morning 
came,  but  no  carriages  were  heard,  though  Paul  and  his 
sister  had  risen  at  five  o'clock,  that  they  might  be  sure  to 
be  ready  for  early  travellers.  Paul  kept  his  scotcher  poised 
upon  his  skoulder,  and  watched  eagerly  at  his  station  at  tho 
bottom  of  the  hill ;  he  did  not  wait  long  before  a  carriage 
came.  He  followed  it  up  the  hill ;  and  the  instant  the  pos- 
tilion called  to  him,  and  bid  him  stop  the  wheels,  he  put 
his  scotcher  behind  them,  and  found  that  it  answered  the 
purpose  perfectly  well.  Many  carriages  went  by  this  day ; 
and  Paul  and  Anne  received  a  great  many  half-pence  from 
the  travellers.  When  it  grew  dusk  in  the  evening,  Anne 
said  to  her  brother,  "  I  do  n't  think  any  more  carriages  will 
come  by  to-day ;  let  us  count  the  half-pence,  and  carry  them 
home  now  to  grandmother." 

"No,  not  yet,"  answered  Paul;  "let  them  alone;  let 
them  lie  still  in  the  hole  where  I  have  put  them :  I  dare 
say  more  carriages  will  come  by  before  it  is  quite  dark,  and 
then  we  shall  have  more  half-pence."  Paul  had  taken  the 
half-pence  out  of  his  hat,  and  he  had  put  them  into  a  hole 
in  the  high  bank  by  the  road-side  ;  and  Anne  said  that  she 
would  not  meddle  with  them,  and  that  she  would  wait  till 
her  brother  liked  to  count  them  ;  and  Paul  said,  "  If  you 
will  stay  and  watch  here,  I  will  go  and  gather  some  black- 
berries for  you  in  the  hedge  in  yonder  field ;  stand  you 
hereabouts,  half-way  up  the  hill,  and  the  moment  you  see 
any  carriage  coming  along  the  road,  run  as  fast  as  you  can, 
and  call  me." 

Anne  waited  a  long  time,  or  what  she  thought  a  long 
time,  and  she  saw  no  carriage  ;  and  she  trailed  her  brother's 
scotcher  up  and  down  till  she  was  tired ;  then  she  stood  still 
and  looked  again,  and  she  saw  no  carriage ;  so  she  went 
sorrowfully  into  the  field,  and  to  the  hedge  where  her  bra- 


346  THE     BASKET-WOMAN. 

ther  wa:  gathering  blackberries,  and  she  said,  "Paul,  I'm 
sadly  tired — sadly  tired!"  said  she,  "and  my  eyes  are 
quite  strained  with  looking  for  chaises :  no  more  chaises 
will  come  to-night,  and  your  scotcher  is  lying  there  of  no 
use  upon  the  ground.  Have  not  I  waited  long  enough  for 
to-day,  Paul?"  —  "Oh  no,"  said  Paul;  "here  are  some 
blackberries  for  you ;  you  had  better  wait  a  little  longer ; 
perhaps  a  carriage  might  go  by  while  you  are  standing  here 
talking  to  me."  Anne,  who  was  of  a  very  obliging  temper, 
and  who  liked  to  do  what  she  was  asked  to  do,  went  back 
to  the  place  where  the  scotcher  lay ;  and  scarcely  had  she 
reached  the  spot,  when  she  heard  the  noise  of  a  carriage. 
She  ran  to  call  her  brother;  and,  to  their  great  joy,  they 
now  saw  four  chaises  coming  towards  them.  Paul,  as  soon 
as  they  went  up  the  hill,  followed  with  his  scotcher ;  first 
he  scotched  the  wheels  of  one  carriage,  then  of  another ; 
and  Anne  was  so  much  delighted  with  observing  how  well 
the  scotcher  stopped  the  wheels,  and  how  much  better  it 
was  than  stones,  that  she  forgot  to  go  and  hold  her  brother's 
hat  to  the  travellers  for  half-pence,  till  she  was  roused  by 
the  voice  of  a  little  rosy  girl,  who  was  looking  out  of  the 
window  of  one  of  the  chaises.  "  Come  close  to  the  chaise- 
door,"  said  the  little  girl ;  "  here  are  some  half-pence  for 
you." 

Anne  held  the  hat ;  and  she  afterward  went  on  to  the 
other  carriages:  money  was  thrown  to  her  from  each  of 
them ;  and  when  they  had  all  gotten  safely  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  she  and  her  brother  sat  down  upon  a  large  stone  by 
the  road-side  to  count  their  treasure.  First  they  began  by 
counting  what  was  in  the  hat —  "  One,  two,  three,  four  half- 
pence." 

"  But  0,  brother,  look  at  this  !"  exclaimed  Anne  ;  "  this 
is  not  the  same  as  the  other  half-pence." 

"  No,  indeed,  it  is  not,"  cried  Paul ;  "  it  is  no  half-penny ; 
it  is  a  guinea,  a  bright  golden  guinea!" — "Is  it?"  said 
Anne,  who  had  never  seen  a  guinea  iD  her  life  before,  and 


THE     BASKLT-WOMAN.  347 

■who  did  not  know  its  value ;  "  and  will  it  do  as  well  as  a 
halfpenny  to  buy  gingerbread?  I'll  run  to  the  fruit-stall, 
and  ask  the  woman,  shall  I V 

"  No,  no,"  said  Paul,  "  you  need  not  ask  any  woman  or 
anybody  but  me ;  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it  as  well  as  any- 
body in  the  whole  world." 

"The  whole  worJd!  0,  Paul,  you  forget!  —  not  so  well 
as  my  grandmother." 

"  Why,  not  so  well  as  my  grandmother,  perhaps ;  but, 
Anne,  I  can  tell  you  that  you  must  not  talk  yourself,  Anne ; 
but  you  must  listen  to  me  quietly,  or  else  you  won't  under- 
stand what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  ;  for  I  can  assure  you  that 
I  do  n't  think  I  quite  understood  it  myself,  Anne,  the  first 
time  my  grandmother  told  it  to  me,  though  I  stood  stock- 
still  listening  my  best." 

Prepared  by  this  speech  to  hear  something  very  difficult 
to  be  understood,  Anne  looked  very  grave ;  and  her  brother 
explained  to  her,  that,  with  a  guinea,  she  might  buy  two 
hundred  and  fifty-two  times  as  many  plums  as  she  could 
get  for  a  penny. 

"  Why,  Paul,  you  know  the  fruit-woman  said  she  would 
give  us  a  dozen  plums  for  a  penny.  Now  for  this  little  gui- 
nea would  she  give  us  two  hundred  and  fifty-two  dozen?" 

"  If  she  has  so  many,  and  if  we  like  to  have  so  many,  to 
be  sure  she  will,"  said  Paul ;  "  but  I  think  we  should  not 
like  to  have  two  hundred  and  fifty-two  dozen  of  plums ;  we 
could  not  eat  such  a  number." 

"  But  we  could  give  some  of  them  to  my  grandmother," 
said  Anne. 

"  But  still  there  would  be  too  many  for  her  and  for  us 
too,"  said  Paul ;  "  and  when  we  had  eaten  the  plums,  there 
would  be  an  end  of  all  the  pleasure  ;  but  now  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  am  thinking  of,  Anne,  that  we  might  buy  something 
for  my  grandmother  that  would  be  very  useful  to  her 
indeed,  with  this  guinea;  something  that  would  last  a  great 
while. 


348  THE     BASKET-WOMAN. 

"What,  brother?  what  sort  of  thing?" 
"  Something  that  she  said  she  wanted  very  much  last 
winter,  when  ske  was  so  ill  of  the  rheumatism ;  something 
that  she  said  yesterday,  when  you  were  making  her  bed,  she 
wished  she  might  be  able  to  buy  before  next  winter." 

"  I  know  !  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Anne,  "  a  blan- 
ket ;  0  yes,  Paul,  that  will  be  much  better  than  plums ;  do 
let  us  buy  a  blanket  for  her :  how  glad  she  will  be  to  see  it  1 
—  I  will  make  her  bed  with  the  new  blanket,  and  then 
bring  her  to  look  at  it.  But,  Paul,  how  shall  we  buy  a 
blanket  ?     Where  are  blankets  to  be  got  ?" 

"Leave  that  to  me,  I'll  manage  that  —  I  know  where 
blankets  can  be  got ;  I  saw  one  hanging  out  of  a  shop  the 
day  I  went  last  to  Dunstable." 

"You  have  seen  a  great  many  things  at  Dunstable,  bro- 
ther." 

"  Yes,  a  great  many ;  but  I  never  saw  anything  there,  or 
anywhere  else,  that  I  wished  for  half  so  much  as  I  did  for 
the  blanket  for  my  grandmother.  Do  you  remember  how 
she  used  to  shiver  with  the  cold  last  winter  ?  I  '11  buy  the 
blanket  to-morrow ;  I  'm  going  to  Dunstable  with  her  spin- 
ning." 

"  And  you  '11  bring  the  blanket  to  me,  and  I  shall  make 
the  bed  very  neatly,  that  will  be  all  right !  all  happy !"  said 
Anne,  clapping  her  hands. 

"  But  stay !  hush !  do  n't  clap  your  hands  so,  Anne ;  it 
will  not  be  all  happy,  I  'ni  afraid,"  said  Paul,  and  his  coun 
tenance  changed,  and  he  looked  very  grave  —  "  it  will  not 
be  all  right,  I  'm  afraid,  for  there  is  one  thing  we  have  nei- 
ther of  us  thought  of,  bui  that  we  ought  to  think  about.  We 
cannot  buy  the  blanket,  I  'in  afraid." 

"Why,  Paul?  why?" 

"  Because  I  do  n't  think  this  guinea  is  honestly  ours." 

"  Nay,  brother,  but  I  'm  sure  it  is  honestly  ours  ;  it  was 
given  to  us,  and  grandmother  said  all  that  was  given  tc  us 
to-day  was  to  be  our  own." 


THE     BASKET- WOMAN.  349 

"  But  who  gave  it  to  you,  Anne  ?" 

"  Some  or  the  people  in  those  chaises,  Paul ;  I  do  n't 
know  which  of  them,  but  I  dare  say  it  was  the  little  rosy 
girl.'* 

"  No,"  said  Paul,  "  for  when  she  called  you  to  the  chaise- 
door,  she  said,  'Here's  some  half-pence  for  ycu.'  Now,  if 
she  gave  you  the  guinea,  she  must  havo  given  it  to  you  .by 
mistake." 

"Well,  but  perhaps  some  of  the  people  in  the  other 
chaises  gave  it  to  me,  and  did  not  give  it  to  me  by  mistake, 
Paul.  There  was  a  gentleman  reading  in  one  of  the  chaises, 
and  a  lady  who  looked  very  good-naturedly  at  me,  and  then 
the  gentleman  put  down  his  book,  and  put  his  head  out  of 
the  window,  and  looked  at  your  scotcher,  brother,  and  he 
asked  me  if  that  was  your  own  making :  and  when  I  said 
yes,  and  that  I  was  your  sister,  he  smiled  at  me,  and  put 
his  hand  into  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  threw  a  handful  of 
half-pence  into  the  hat,  and  I  dare  say  he  gave  us  the  gui- 
nea along  with  them,  because  he  liked  your  scotcher  so 
much." 

"  Why,"  said  Paul,  "  that  might  be,  to  be  sure ;  but  I 
wish  I  was  quite  certain  of  it." 

"  Then,  as  we  are  not  quite  certain,  had  not  we  best  go 
and  ask  my  grandmother  what  she  thinks  about  it?" 

Paul  thought  this  was  excellent  advice  ;  and  he  was  not 
a  silly  boy,  who  did  not  like  to  fallow  good  advice :  he  went 
with  his  sister  directly  to  his  grandmother,  showed  her  the 
guinea,  and  told  how  they  came  by  it. 

"  My  dear  honest  children,"  said  she,  "  I  am  very  glad 
you  told  me  all  this ;  I  am  very  glad  that  you  did  not  buy 
either  the  plums  or  the  blanket  with  this  guinea:  I'm  sure 
it  is  not  honestly  ours ;  those  who  threw  it  to  you  gave  it 
Dy  mistake,  I  warrant ;  and  what  I  would  have  you  do  is, 
Xo  get  to  Dunstable,  and  try  if  you  can,  at  either  of  the 
inns,  find  out  the  person  who  gave  it  to  you.  It  is  now  so 
late  in  the  evening,  that  perhaps  the  travellers  will  sleep  at 


350  THE     BASKET-WOMAN. 

Dunstable,  instead  of  going  on  the  next  stage ;  and  it  is 
likely,  that  whosoever  gave  you  the  guinea,  instead  of  a 
half-penny,  has  found  out  his  mistake  by  this  time.  All 
you  can  do  is  to  go  and  inquire  for  the  gentleman  who  wa? 
reading  in  the  chaise." 

"  Oh  I"  interrupted  Paul,  "  I  know  a  good  way  of  finding 
him  out :  I  remember  it  was  a  dark-green  chaise  with  red 
wheels  ;  and  I  remember  I  read  the  innkeeper's  name  upon 
the  chaise,  '  John  Nelson.'  (I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for 
teaching  me  to  read,  grandmother.)  You  told  me  yesterday, 
grandmother,  that  the  names  written  upon  chaises  are  the 
names  of  the  innkeepers  to  whom  they  belong.  I  read  the 
name  of  the  innkeeper  upon  that  chaise :  it  was  John  Nel- 
son. So  Anne  and  I  will  go  to  both  the  inns  in  Dunstable 
and  try  to  find  out  this  chaise  —  John  Nelson's.  —  Come, 
Anne,  let  us  set  out  before  it  gets  quite  dark." 

Anne  and  her  brother  passed  with  great  courage  the 
tempting  stall,  that  was  covered  with  gingerbread  and  ripe 
plums,  and  pursued  their  way  steadily  through  the  street 
of  Dunstable  ;  but  Paul,  whe%  he  came  to  the  shop  wheie 
he  had  seen  the  blankets,  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  said, 
"  It  is  a  great  pity,  Anne,  that  the  guinea  is  not  ours  ;  how- 
over,  we  are  doing  what  is  honest,  and  that  is  a  comfort 
Here,  we  must  go  through  this  gateway,  into  the  inn-yard 
we  are  come  to  the  Dun  Cow." 

"  Cow,"  said  Anne,  "  I  see  no  cow." 

"  Look  up,  and  you  '11  see  the  cow  over  your  head,"  said 
Paul,  "  the  sign  —  the  picture.  Come,  never  mind  looking 
at  it  now ;  I  want  to  find  c  it  the  green  chaise  that  has  John 
Nelson's  name  upon  it." 

Paul  pushed  forward,  through  a  crowded  passage,  till  he 
got  into  the  inn-yard :  there  was  a  great  noise  and  bustle ; 
the  hostlers  were  carrying  in  luggage ;  the  postilions  were 
rubbing  down  their  horses,  or  rolling  the  chaises  into  the 
coach-house. 

"What  now?  what  business  have  you  here,  pray?"  said 


THE     BASKET-WOMAN.  351 

a  waiter,  who  almost  ran  over  Paul,  as  he  was  crossing  the 
yard  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  some  empty  bottles  from  the 
hottle-rack.  "You've  no  business  here,  crowding  up  the 
yard ;  walk  off,  young  gentleman,  if  you  please." 

"  Pray  give  me  leave,  sir,"  said  Paul,  "  to  stay  a  few 
minutes  to  look  among  these  chaises  for  one  dark-green 
chaise  with  red  wheels,  that  has  Mr.  John  Nelson's  name 
written  upon  it." 

"  What 's  that  he  says  about  a  dark-green  chaise  ?"  said 
one  of  the  postilions. 

"  What  should  such  a  one  as  he  is  know  about  chaises  ?" 
interrupted  the  hasty  waiter,  as  he  was  going  to  turn  Paul 
out  of  the  yard  ;  but  the  hostler  caught  hold  of  his  arm,  and 
said,  "May  be  the  child  has  some  business  here;  let's 
know  what  he  has  to  say  for  himself." 

The  waiter  was  at  this  instant  luckily  obliged  to  leave 
them  to  attend  the  bell ;  and  Paul  told  his  business  to  the 
hostler,  who,  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  guinea  and  heard  the 
story,  shook  Paul  by  the  hand,  and  said,  "  Stand  steady,  my 
honest  lad ;  I'll  find  the  chaise  for  you,  if  it's  to  be  found 
here :  but  John  Nelson's  chaises  almost  always  drive  to  the 
Black  Bull." 

After  some  difficulty,  the  green  chaise  with  John  Nelson's 
name  upon  it,  and  the  postilion  who  drove  that  chaise,  were 
found;  and  the  postilion  told  Paul  that  he  was  just  going 
into  the  parlour  to  the  gentleman  he  had  driven,  to  be  paid, 
and  that  he  would  carry  the  guinea  with  him. 

"  No,"  said  Paul,  "  we  should  like  to  give  it  back  cur- 
selves." 

"Yes,"  said  the  hostlei,  "that  they  have  a  right  to  do." 

The  postilion  made  no  reply,  but  looked  vexed,  and  went 
on  towards  the  house,  desiring  the  children  would  wait  in 
the  passage  till  his  return. 

In  the  passage  there  was  standing  a  decent,  clean,  good- 
natured  looking  woman,  with  two  huge  straw  baskets  on 
each  side  of  her.    One  of  the  baskets  «tood  a  little  in  the 


352  THE     BASKET-WOMAN. 

way  of  the  entrance.  A  man  who  was  pushing  his  way  in, 
and  carried  in  his  hand  a  string  of  dead  larks  hung  to  » 
pole,  impatient  at  being  stopped,  kicked  down  the  straw 
basket,  and  all  its  contents  were  thrown  out  —  bright  straw 
hats,  and  boxes,  and  slippers  were  all  thrown  in  disorder 
upon  the  dirty  ground. 

"  Oh,  they  will  be  trampled  upon !  they  will  be  all 
spoiled  I"  exclaimed  the  woman  to  whom  they  belonged. 

"  We  '11  help  you  to  pick  them  up,  if  you  will  let  us," 
cried  Paul  and  Anne;  and  they  immediately  ran  to  her 
assistance. 

When  the  things  were  all  safe  in  the  basket  again,  the 
children  expressed  a  great  desire  to  know  how  such  beautiful 
things  could  be  made  of  straw ;  but  the  woman  had  not 
time  to  answer  them  before  the  postilion  came  out  of  the 
parlour,  and  with  him  a  gentleman's  servant,  who  came  to 
Paul,  and,  clapping  him  upon  the  back,  said,  "  So,  my  little 
chap,  I  gave  you  a  guinea  for  a  half-penny,  I  hear ;  and  I 
understand  you've  brought  it  back  again  —  that's  right  - 
give  me  hold  of  it." 

"  No,  brother,"  said  Anne ;  "  this  is  not  the  gentleman 
that  was  reading." 

"Pooh,  child,  I  came  in  Mr.  Nelson's  green  chaise. 
Here's  the  postilion  can  tell  you  so.  I  and  my  master  came 
in  that  chaise.  It  was  my  master  that  was  reading,  as  you 
say :  and  it  was  he  that  threw  the  money  out  to  you :  he  is 
going  to  bed;  he  is  tired,  and  can't  see  you  himself:  he 
desires  that  you  '11  give  me  the  guinea." 

Paul  was  too  honest  himself  to  suspect  that  this  man  was 
telling  him  a  falsehood ;  and  he  now  readily  produced  his 
bright  guinea,  and  delivered  it  into  the  servant's  hands. 

"  Here 's  sixpence  apiece  for  you,  children,"  said  he,  "  and 
good-night  to  you."  —  He  pushed  them  towards  the  door; 
but  the  basket- worn  an  whispered  to  them  as  they  went  out, 
"  Wait  in  the   street  till  I  come  to  you." 

"  Pray,  Mrs.  Landlady,"  cried  this  gentleman's  servant, 


THE     BASKET-WOMAN.  -353 

addressing  himself  to  the  landlady,  who  just  then  came 
out  of  a  room  where  some  company  were  at  supper  —  "  pray, 
Mrs.  Landlady,  please  to  let  me  have  roasted  larks  for  my 
supper.  You  are  famous  for  larks  at  Dunstable  ;  and  I  make 
it  a  rule  to  taste  the  best  of  everything,  wherever  I  go  ;  and, 
waiter,  let  me  have  a  bottle  of  claret  —  do  you  hear  ?" 

"  Larks  and  claret  for  his  supper  I"  said  the  basket- 
woman  to  herself,  as  she  looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot. 
The  postilion  was  still  waiting,  as  if  to  speak  to  him  ;  and 
she  observed  them  afterward  whispering  and  laughing 
together.  "No  bad  hit,"  was  a  sentence  which  the  servani 
pronounced  several  times. 

Now  it  occurred  to  the  basket-woman  that  this  man  had 
cheated  the  children  out  of  the  guinea  to  pay  for  the  larks 
and  claret ;  and  she  thought  that  perhaps  she  could  discover 
the  truth.     She  waited  quietly  in  the  passage. 

"  Waiter !  Joe  !  Joe  I"  cried  the  landlady,  "  why  do  n't 
you  carry  in  the  sweetmeat  puffs  and  the  tarts  here  to  the 
company  in  the  best  parlour?" 

"  Coming,  ma'am,"  answered  the  waiter ;  and  with  a 
large  dish  of  tarts  and  puffs  the  waiter  came  from  the  bar ; 
the  landlady  threw  open  the  door  of  the  best  parlour,  to  let 
him  in,  and  the  basket-woman  had  now  a  full  view  of  a  large 
cheerful  company,  and  among  them  several  children  sitting 
round  a  supper-table. 

"  Ay,"  whispered  the  landlady,  as  the  door  closed  after 
the  waiter  and  the  tarts,  "  there  are  customers  enough,  I 
warrant,  for  you  in  that  room,  if  you  had  but  the  luck  to  be 
called  in.  Pray  what  would  you  have  the  conscience,  I 
wonder  now,  to  charge  me  for  these  here  half-dozen  little 
mats,  to  put  under  my  dishes  t" 

"  A  trifle,  ma'am,"  said  the  basket-woman.     She  let  the 

landlady  have   the   mats   cheap ;    and   the   landlady  then 

declared  she  would  step  in,  and  see  if  the  company  in  the 

best  parlour  had  done  supper  —  "  When  they  come  to  theii 

23 


354  THE     BASKET-WOMAN. 

wine,"  added  she,  "I'll  speak  a  good  word  for  you,  and  get 
you  called  in  afore  the  children  are  sent  to  bed." 

The  landlady,  after  the  usual  speech  of  "  I  hope  the  sup- 
per and  everything  is  to  your  liking,  ladies  and  gentlemen" 
began  with,  "  if  any  of  the  young  gentlemen  or  ladies  would 
have  a  curiosity  to  see  any  of  our  famous  Dunstable  straw- 
work,  there 's  a  decent  body  without  would,  I  dare  to  say, 
be  proud  to  show  them  her  pincushion-boxes,  and  her  bas- 
kets and  slippers,  and  her  other  curiosities." 

The  eyes  of  the  children  all  turned  towards  their  mother, 
their  mother  smiled,  and  immediately  their  father  called  in 
the  basket-woman,  and  desired  her  to  produce  her  curiosi- 
ties." 

The  children  gathered  round  her  large  pannier  as  it 
Dpened ;  but  they  did  not  touch  any  of  her  things. 

"  0,  papa  !"  cried  a  little  rosy  girl,  "  here  are  a  pair  of 
straw  slippers  that  would  just  fit  you,  I  think  ;  but  would 
not  straw  shoes  wear  out  very  soon  ?  and  would  not  they  let 
in  the  wet  V 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  "  but  these  slippers  are 
meant — "  "  For  powdering  slippers,  miss,"  interrupted  the 
basket-woman. 

"  To  wear  when  people  are  powdering  their  hair,"  con- 
tinued the  gentleman,  "  that  they  may  not  spoil  their  other 
shoes." 

"And  will  you  buy  them,  papa?" 

"No,  I  cannot  indulge  myself,"  said  her  father,  "buying 
them  now ;  I  must  make  amends,"  said  he,  laughing,  "  for 
my  carelessness ;  and  as  I  threw  away  a  guinea  to-day,  I 
must  endeavour  to  save  sixpence  at  least." 

"  Ah,  the  guinea  that  you  threw  by  mistake  into  the  little 
girl's  hat,  as  we  were  coming  up  Chalk  Hill.  Mamma,  I 
wonder  that  the  little  girl  did  not  take  notice  of  its  being  a 
guinea,  and  that  she  did  not  run  after  the  chaise  to  give  it 
back  again.  I  should  think,  if  she  had  bee-  an  honest  girl, 
she  would  have  returned  it." 


THE     BASKET-WOMAN.  355 

"  Miss  ! — Ma'am — Sir  I"  said  the  basket-woman.  "  if  it 
woulu  not  be  impertinent,  may  I  speak  a  word  ?  A  little 
boy  and  girl  have  just  been  here  inquiring  for  a  gentleman 
who  gave  them  a  guinea  instead  of  a  half-penny  by  mis- 
take ;  and,  not  five  minutes  ago,  I  saw  the  boy  give  the  gui- 
nea to  a  gentleman's  servant,  who  is  there  without,  and  who 
said  his  master  desired  it  should  be  returned  to  him." 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake,  or  some  trick  in  this," 
said  the  gentleman  ;  "  are  the  children  gone  ?  I  must  see 
them.     Send  after  them." 

"  I  '11  go  for  them  myself,"  said  the  good-natured  basket- 
woman  ;  "  I  bid  them  wait  in  the  street  yonder ;  for  my 
mind  misgave  me  that  the  man  who  spoke  so  short  to  them 
was  a  cheat  —  with  his  larks  and  his  claret." 

Paul  and  Anne  were  speedily  summoned,  and  brought 
back  by  their  friend  the  basket-woman  ;  and  Anne,  the 
moment  she  saw  the  gentleman,  knew  that  he  was  the  very 
person  who  smiled  upon  her,  who  admired  her  brother's 
scotcher,  and  who  threw  a  handful  of  halfpence  into  the 
hat ;  but  she  could  not  be  certain,  she  said,  that  she  received 
the  guinea  from  him  ;  she  only  thought  it  was  most  likely 
that  she  did. 

"  But  I  can  be  certain  whether  the  guinea  you  returned 
be  mine  or  not,"  said  the  gentleman  ;  "  I  marked  the  gui- 
nea :  it  was  a  light  one ;  the  only  guinea  I  had,  which  I 
put  in  my  waistcoat-pocket  this  morning." 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  the  waiter  to  let  the  gen- 
tleman who  was  in  the  room  opposite  to  him  know  that  he 
wished  to  see  him. 

"  The  gentleman  in  the  white  parlour,  sir,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  the  master  of  the  servant  who  received  a  guinea 
from  this  child." 

"  He  is  a  Mr.  Pembroke,  sir,"  said  the  waiter. 

Mr.  Pembroke  camt,  and  as  soon  as  he  heard  what  had 
happened,  he  desired  the  waiter  to  show  him  to  the  room 
where  his  servant  wis  at  supper. 


356  THE     BASKET-WOMAN. 

The  dishonest  servant,  who  was  supping  upon  larks  and 
claret,  knew  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  ;  but  knife  and 
fork  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he  overturned  a  bumper 
of  claret,  as  he  started  up  from  the  table,  in  great  surprise 
and  terror,  when  his  master  came  in  with  a  face  of  indig- 
nation, and  demanded,  "  The  guinea  —  the  guinea,  sir  I  that 
you  got  from  this  child  —  that  guinea  which  you  said  I 
ordered  you  to  ask  for  from  this  child.,, 

The  servant,  confounded  and  half-intoxicated,  could  only 
stammer  out  that  he  had  more  guineas  than  one  about  him, 
and  that  he  really  did  not  know  which  it  was.  He  pulled 
his  money  out  and  spread  it  upon  the  table  with  trembling 
hands.  The  marked  guinea  appeared.  His  master  instantly 
turned  him  out  of  his  service,  with  strong  expressions  of 
contempt. 

"And  now,  my  little  honest  girl,"  said  the  gentleman 
who  had  admired  her  brother's  scotcher,  turning  to  Anne, 
"  and  now  tell  me  who  you  are,  and  what  you  and  your  bro- 
ther want  or  wish  for  most  in  the  world." 

In  the  same  moment,  Anne  and  Paul  exclaimed,  "The 
thing  we  wish  for  the  most  in  the  world  is  a  blanket  for  our 
grandmother." 

"  She  is  not  our  grandmother  in  reality,  I  believe,  sir," 
said  Paul;  "but  she  is  just  as  good  to  us,  and  taught  me 
to  read,  and  taught  Anne  to  knit,  and  taught  us  both  that 
we  should  be  honest  —  so  she  has;  and  I  wish  she  had  a 
new  blanket  before  next  winter,  to  keep  her  from  the  cold 
and  the  rheumatism.  She  had  the  rheumatism  sadly  last 
winter,  sir ;  and  there  is  a  blanket  in  this  street  that  would 
be  just  the  thing  for  her." 

"  She  shall  have  it  then  ;  and,"  continued  the  gentleman, 
"I  will  do  something  more  for  you.  Do  you  like  to  be 
employed,  or  to  be  idle,  best?" 

"  We  like  to  have  something  to  do  always  if  we  could, 
sir,"  said  Paul ;  "  but  we  are  forced  to  be  idle  sometimes, 
because  grandmother  has  not  always  things  for  us  to  do, 
that  we  can  do  well." 


THE     BASKET-WOMAN.  857 

"  Should  you  like  to  learn  how  to  make  such  baskets  as 
theue  ?"  said  the  gentleman,  pointing  to  one  of  the  Dunsta- 
ble straw-baskets. 

"  0,  very  much  I"  said  Paul. 

"  Very  much  !"  said  Anne, 

11  Then  I  should  like  to  teach  you  how  to  make  them," 
said  the  basket-woman  ;  "for  I  am  sure  of  one  thing,  that 
you  'd  behave  honestly  to  me." 

The  gentleman  put  a  guinea  into  the  good-natured  b  isket- 
woman's  hand,  and  told  her  that  he  knew  she  could  not 
afford  to  teach  them  her  trade  for  nothing.  "  I  shall  come 
through  Dunstable  again  in  a  few  months,"  added  he  ;  "  and 
1  hope  to  see  that  you  and  your  scholars  are  going  on  well. 
If  I  find  they  are,  I  will  do  something  more  for  you." 

"  But,"  said  Anne,  "  we  must  tell  all  this  to  grandmother, 
and  ask  her  about  it:  and  I'm  afraid  —  though  I'm  very 
happy  —  that  it  is  getting  very  late,  and  that  we  should  not 
stay  here  any  longer." 

"  It  is  a  fine  moonlight  night,"  said  the  basket-woman  ; 
"  and  it  is  not  far ;  I  '11  walk  with  you,  and  see  you  safe 
home  myself." 

The  gentleman  detained  them  a  few  minutes  longer,  till 
a  messenger,  whom  he  had  despatched  to  purchase  the 
much-wished-for  blanket,  returned. 

"  Your  grandmother  will  sleep  well  under  this  good  blan- 
ket, I  hope,"  said  the  gentleman,  as  he  gave  it  into  Paul's 
opened  arms  ;  "  it  has  bsen  obtained  for  her  by  the  honesty 
of  her  adopted  children/' 


THE  WHITE  PIGEON. 


The  little  town  of  Somerville,  in  Ireland,  has,  within 
these  few  years,  assumed  the  neat  and  cheerful  appearance 
of  an  English  village.  Mr.  Somerville,  to  whom  this  town 
belongs,  wishei  to  inspire  his  tenantry  with  a  taste  for  order 
and  domestic  happiness,  and  took  every  means  in  his  power 
to  encourage  industrious  well-behaved  people  to  settle  in 
his  neighbourhood.  When  he  had  finished  building  a  row 
of  good  slated  houses  in  his  town,  he  declared  that  he  would 
let  them  to  the  best  tenants  he  could  find,  and  proposals 
were  publicly  sent  to  him  from  all  parts  of  the  country.  By 
the  best  tenants,  Mr.  Somerville  did  not,  however,  mean  the 
best  bidders  ,*  and  many,  who  had  offered  an  extravagant 
price  for  the  houses,  were  surprised  to  find  their  proposals 
rejected.  Among  these  was  Mr.  Cox,  an  alehouse-keeper, 
who  did  not  bear  a  very  good  character. 

"  Please  your  honour,  sir,"  said  he  to  Mr.  Somerville, 
"  I  expected,  since  I  bid  as  fair  and  fairer  for  it  than  any  other, 
that  you  would  have  let  me  the  house  next  the  apothecary's. 
Was  not  it  fifteen  guineas  I  mentioned  in  my  proposal  ?  and 
did  not  your  honour  give  it  against  me  for  thirteen  V 

"  My  honour  did  just  so,"  replied  Mr.  Somerville,  calmly. 

"  And,  please  your  honour,  but  I  do  n't  know  what  it  is  I 
or  mine  have  done  to  offend  you  —  I'm  sure  there  is  not  a 
gentleman  in  all  Ireland  I  'd  go  farther  to  sarve.  Would 
not  I  go  to  Cork  to-morrow  for  the  least  word  from  your 
honour?" 

(358) 


1HE     WHITE     PIGEON.  359 

M 1  am  mujh  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Cox,  but  I  have  no  busi- 
ness at  Cork  at  present/'  answered  Mr.  Somerville,  dryly. 

"  It  is  all  I  wish,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cox,  "  that  I  could  find 
out  and  light  upon  the  man  that  has  belied  me  to  your 
honour." 

"  No  man  has  belied  you,  Mr.  Cox  ;  but  your  nose  belies 
you  much,  if  you  do  not  love  drinking  a  little ;  and  your 
black  eye  and  cut  chin  belie  you  much,  if  you  do  not  love 
quarrelling  a  little." 

"  Quarrel !  I  quarrel,  please  your  honour !  I  defy  any 
man  or  set  of  men,  ten  mile  round,  to  prove  such  a  thing ; 
and  I  am  ready  to  fight  him  that  dares  to  say  the  like  of 
me  ;  I  'd  fight  him  here  in  your  honour's  presence,  if  he  'd 
only  come  out  this  minute,  and  meet  me  like  a  man." 

Here  Mr.  Cox  put  himself  into  boxing  attitude ;  but 
observing  that  Mr.  Somerville  looked  at  his  threatening 
gesture  with  a  smile,  and  that  several  people,  who  had 
gathered  round  him  as  he  stood  in  the  street,  laughed  at  the 
proof  he  gave  of  his  peaceable  disposition,  he  changed  his 
attitude,  and  went  on  to  vindicate  himself  against  the  charge 
of  drinking. 

"And  as  to  drink,  please  your  honour,  there  's  no  truth 
in  it.  Not  a  drop  of  whiskey,  good  or  bad,  have  I  touched 
these  six  months,  except  what  I  took  with  Jemmy  M'Doole 
the  night  I  had  the  misfortune  to  meet  your  honour  coming 
home  from  the  fair  of  Ballynagrish." 

To  this  speech  Mr.  Somerville  made  no  answer,  but  turned 
away  to  look  at  the  bow-window  of  a  handsome  new  inn, 
which  the  glazier  was  at  this  instant  glazing. 

"  Please  your  honour,  that  new  inn  is  not  let,  I  hear,  as 
yet,"  resumed  Mr.  Cox;  "  if  your  honour  recollects,  you 
promised  to  make  me  a  compliment  of  it,  last  Seraphtide 
was  twelvemonth." 

"Impossible!"  cried  Mr.  Somerville,  "fcr  I  had  no 
thought  of  building  an  inn  at  that  time." 

"0,  I  beg  your  honour's  pardon;  but  if  you'd  be  just 


360  THE     WHITE     PIGEON. 

pleased  to  recollect,  it  was  coming  through  the  gap  in  the 
bog-meadows,  forenent  Thady  O'Connor  you  made  me  the 
promise  7— I  '11  leave  it  to  him,  so  I  will." 

"  But  I  will  not  leave  it  to  him,  I  assure  you,"  cried  Mr. 
Somerville  ;  "  I  never  made  such  promise :  I  never  though! 
of  letting  this  inn  to  you." 

"  Then  your  honour  won't  let  me  have  it?" 

"  No.  You  have  told  me  a  dozen  falsehoods.  I  do  not 
wish  to  have  you  for  a  tenant." 

"Well,  God  bless  your  honour;  I've  no  more  to  say,  but 
God  bless  your  honour,"  said  Mr.  Cox ;  and  he  walked  away, 
muttering  to  himself,  as  he  slouched  his  hat  over  his  face, 

"  I  hope  I  '11  live  to  be  revenged  on  him  !" 

Mr.  Somerville  the  next  morning  went  with  his  family  to 
look  at  the  new  inn,  which  he  expected  to  see  perfectly  fin- 
ished ;  but  he  was  met  by  the  carpenter,  who,  with  a  rueful 
face,  informed  him  that  six  panes  of  glass  in  the  large  bow- 
window  had  been  broken  during  the  night. 

"  Ha !  perhaps  Mr.  Cox  has  broken  my  windows  in 
revenge  for  my  refusing  to  let  him  my  house,"  said  Mr.  So- 
merville ;  and  many  of  the  neighbours,  who  knew  the  mali- 
cious character  of  this  Mr.  Cox,  observed  that  this  was  like 
one  of  his  tricks. 

A  boy  of  about  twelve  years  old,  however,  stepped  for- 
ward and  said,  "  I  do  n't  like  Mr.  Cox,  I  'm  sure,  for  he  once 
beat  me  when  he  was  drunk ;  but,  for  all  that,  no  one  should 
be  accused  wrongfully:  he  could  not  be  the  person  who 
broke  these  windows  last  night;  for  he  was  six  miles  off; 
he  slept  at  his  cousin's  last  night,  and  he  has  not  returned 
home  yet;  so  I  think  he  knows  nothing  of  the  matter." 

Mr.  Somerville  was  pleased  with  the  honest  simplicity  of 
this  boy,  and  observing  that  he  looked  in  eagerly  at  tho 
staircase  when  the  house-door  was  opened,  he  asked  him 
whether  he  should  like  to  go  in  and  see  the  new  house. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  should  like  to  go  up  tho»» 
stairs,  and  to  see  what  I  should  come  to." 


THE     WHITE     PIGEON.  361 

"Up  with  yon.  then  !"  said  Mr.  Somerville  ;  and  the  boy 
ran  up  the  stairs.  He  went  from  room  to  room  with  great 
expressions  of  admiration  and  delight ;  at  length,  as  he  was 
examining  one  of  the  garrets,  he  was  startled  by  a  flutter- 
ing noise  over  his  head ;  and  looking  up,  he  saw  a  white 
pigeon,  which,  frightened  at  his  appearance,  began  to  fly 
round  and  round  the  room,  till  it  found  its  way  out  at  the 
door,  and  flew  into  the  staircase.  The  carpenter  was  speak- 
ing to  Mr.  Somerville  upon  the  landing-place  of  the  stairs ; 
but  the  moment  he  spied  the  white  pigeon,  he  broke  off  in 
the  midst  of  his  speech  about  the  nose  of  the  stairs,  and 
exclaimed,  "There  he  is,  please  your  honour!  —  There's 
he  that  has  done  all  the  damage  to  our  bow-window  —  that's 
the  very  same  wicked  white  pigeon  that  broke  the  church 
windows,  last  Sunday  was  sennight ;  but  he 's  down  for  it 
now ;  we  have  him  safe,  and  I  '11  chop  his  head  off,  as  he 
deserves,  this  minute." 

"Stay!  Ostay!  don't  chop  his  head  off:  he  does  not 
deserve  it,"  cried  the  boy,  who  came  running  out  of  the 
garret  with  the  greatest  eagerness — 

"/broke  your  window,  sir,"  said  he  to  Mr.  Somerville, 
"  I  broke  your  window  with  this  ball ;  but  I  did  not  know 
that  I  had  done  it  till  this  moment,  I  assure  you,  or  I 
should  have  told  you  before.  Don't  chop  his  head  off," 
added  the  boy  to  the  carpenter,  who  had  now  the  white 
pigeon  in  his  hands. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Somerville,  "  the  pigeon's  head  shall  not 
be  chopped  off,  nor  yours  neither,  my  good  boy,  for  break- 
ing a  window.  I  am  persuaded,  by  your  open,  honest  coun- 
tenance, that  you  are  speaking  the  truth  :  but  pray  explain 
this  matter  to  us,  for  you  have  not  made  it  quite  clear ;  how 
happened  it  that  you  could  break  my  windows  without 
knowing  it?  and  how  came  you  to  find  it  out  at  last?" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  boy,  "  if  you  '11  come  up  here,  I  '11  show 
ycu  all  I  know,  and  how  I  came  to  know  it." 

Mr.  Somerville  followed  him  into  the  garret,  j  and  the  boy 


362  THE     WHITE     PIGEON. 

pointed  to  a  pane  of  glass  that  was  broken  in  a  small  win 
dow  that  looked  out  upon  a  piece  of  waste  ground  behind 
the  house.  Upon  this  piece  of  waste  ground  the  children 
of  the  village  often  used  to  play.  "  We  were  playing  there 
at  ball  yesterday  evening,"  continued  the  boy,  addressing 
himself  to  Mr.  Somerville  ;  "  and  one  of  the  lads  challenged 
me  to  hit  a  mark  in  the  wall,  which  I  did ;  but  he  said  I 
did  not  hit  it,  and  bade  me  give  him  up  my  ball  as  the  for- 
feit. This  I  would  not  do  ;  and  when  he  began  to  wrestle 
with  me  for  it,  I  threw  the  ball,  as  I  thought,  over  the  house. 
He  ran  to  Look  for  it  in  the  street,  but  could  not  find  it, 
which  I  was  very  glad  of:  but  I  was  very  sorry  just  now  to 
find  it  myself,  lying  upon  this  heap  of  shavings,  sir,  under 
this  broken  window ;  for,  as  soon  as  I  saw  it  lying  there,  I 
knew  I  must  have  been  the  person  that  broke  the  window  : 
and  through  this  window  came  the  white  pigeon :  here  'a 
one  of  his  white  feathers  sticking  in  the  gap." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  carpenter,  "  and  in  the  bow-window  room 
below  there 's  plenty  of  his  white  feathers  to  be  seen,  for 
I've  just  been  down  to  look:  it  was  the  pigeon  broke  them 
windows,  sure  enough." 

"But  he  could  not  have  got  in  if  I  had  not  broken  this 
little  window,"  said  the  boy  eagerly :  "  and  I  am  able  to 
earn  sixpence  a  day,  and  I  '11  pay  for  all  the  mischief,  and 
welcome.  The  white  pigeon  belongs  to  a  poor  neighbour, 
a  friend  of  ours,  who  is  very  fond  of  him  ;  and  I  would  not 
have  Mm  killed  for  twice  as  much  money." 

"  Take  the  pigeon,  my  honest,  generous  lad,"  said  Mr. 
Somerville,  "  and  carry  him  back  to  your  neighbour.  I  for- 
give him  all  the  mischief  he  has  done  me,  tell  your  friend, 
for  your  sake.  As  to  the  rest,  we  can  have  the  windows 
mended ;  and  do  you  keep  all  the  sixpences  you  earn  for 
yourself." 

"That's  what  he  never  did  yet,"  said  the  carpenter; 
u  many 's  the  sixpence  he  earns,  but  not  a  half-penny  goes 
Into  his  own  pocket ;  it  goes  every  farthing  to  his  poor  father 
j>ml  mother.     Happy  for  them  to  have  such  a  son \" 


TIIE     WHITE     PIGEON.  363 

"More  happy  for  him  to  have  such  a  father  and  mother  1" 
exclaimed  the  boy  ;  "  in  their  good  days  they  took  all  the  best 
care  of  me  that  was  to  be  had  for  love  or  money,  and  would, 
if  I  would  let  them,  go  on  paying  for  my  schooling  now, 
fallen  as  they  be  in  the  world ;  but  I  must  learn  to  mind 
the  shop  now.  Good-morning  to  you,  sir,  and  thank  you 
kindly,"  said  he  to  Mr.  Somerville. 

"And  where  does  this  boy  live,  and  who  are  his  father 
and  mother?  they  cannot  live  in  town,"  said  Mr.  Somer- 
ville, "  or  I  should  have  heard  of  them." 

"  They  are  but  just  come  into  town,  please  your  honour," 
said  the  carpenter ;  "  they  lived  formerly  upon  Counsellor 
O'DonnePs  estate  ;  but  they  were  ruined,  please  your  honour, 
by  taking  a  joint-lease  with  a  man,  who  fell  afterward  into 
bad  company,  ran  out  all  he  had,  so  could  not  pay  the  land- 
lord ;  and  these  poor  people  were  forced  to  pay  his  share 
and  their  own  too,  which  almost  ruined  them  :  they  were 
obliged  to  give  up  the  land ;  and  now  they  have  furnished 
a  little  shop  in  this  town  with  what  goods  they  could  afford 
to  buy  with  the  money  they  got  by  the  sale  of  their  cattle 
and  stock.  They  have  the  good- will  of  all  who  know  them  ; 
and  I  am  sure  I  hope  they  will  do  well.  The  boy  is  very 
ready  in  the  shop,  though  he  said  that  he  could  earn  only 
ixpence  a  day ;  he  writes  a  good  hand,  and  is  quick  at 
casting  up  accounts  for  his  age.  Besides,  he  is  likely  to  do 
well  in  the  world,  because  he  is  never  in  idle  company  ;  and 
I've  known  him  since  he  was  two  feet  high,  and  never  heard 
of  his  telling  a  lie." 

"  This  is  an  excellent  character  of  the  boy,  indeed,"  said 
Mr.  Somerville ;  "  and  from  his  behaviour  this  morning  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  he  deserves  all  your  praises."  Mr. 
Somerville  resolved  to  inquire  more  fully  concerning  this 
poor  family,  and  to  attend  to  their  conduct  himself,  fully 
determined  to  assist  them,  if  he  should  find  them  such  as 
they  had  been  represented. 

In  the  mean  time  this  boy,  whose  name  was  Brian  O'Neill, 
went  to  return  the  white  pigeon  to  its  owner. 


364  THE     WHITE     PIGEON. 

"You  have  s>aved  its  life,"  said  the  woman  to  whom  it 
belonged,  li  and  I  '11  make  you  a  present  of  it." 

Brian  thanked  her,  and  he  from  that  day  began  to  grow 
fond  of  the  pigeon.  He  always  took  care  to  scatter  some 
oats  for  it  in  his  father's  yard ;  and  the  pigeon  grew  so  tame 
at  last,  that  it  would  hop  about  the  kitchen,  and  eat  off  th« 
same  trencher  with  the  dog.* 

Brian,  after  the  shop  was  shut  up  at  night,  used  to  amuse 
himself  with  reading  some  little  books  which  the  school- 
master who  formerly  taught  him  arithmetic  was  so  good  as 
to  lend  him.  Among  these  he  one  evening  met  with  a  little 
book  full  of  the  history  of  birds  and  beasts ;  he  looked 
immediately  to  see  whether  the  pigeon  was  mentioned 
among  the  birds,  and  to  his  great  joy  he  found  a  full 
description  and  history  of  his  favourite  bird. 

"  So,  Brian,  I  see  your  schooling  has  not  been  thrown 
away  upon  you ;  you  like  your  book,  I  see,  when  you  have 
no  master  over  you  to  bid  you  read,"  said  his  father,  when 
he  came  in  and  saw  him  reading  his  book  very  attentively 

"  Thank  you  for  having  taught  me  to  read,  father,"  said 
Brian  :  "  here  I  've  made  a  great  discovery ;  I  've  found  ou* 
in  this  book,  little  as  it  looks,  father,  a  most  curious  way  of 
making  a  fortune ;  and  I  hope  it  will  make  your  fortune, 
father:  and  if  you'll  sit  down,  I'll  tell  it  you." 

Mr.  O'Neill,  in  hopes  of  pleasing  his  son,  rather  than  in 
the  expectation  of  having  his  fortune  made,  immediately 
sat  down  to  listen ;  and  his  son  explained  to  him  that  he 
had  found  in  his  book  an  account  of  pigeons  who  carried 
notes  and  letters  ;  "  And,  father,"  continued  Brian,  "  1  find 
my  pigeon  is  of  this  sort ;  and  I  intend  to  make  my  pigeon 
carry  messages:  why  should  not  he,  sir?  If  other  pigeons 
have  done  so  before  him,  I  think  he  is  as  good,  and  I  dare 
say  will  be  as  easy  to  teach,  as  any  pigeon  in  the  world ; 
and  1  shall  begin  to  teach  him  to-morrow  morning ;  and 
then,  father,  you  know  people  often  pay  a  great  deal  for 

*  This  is  a  fact. 


THE     WHITE     PIGEON.  365 

sending  messengers  ;  and  no  boy  can  run,  no  horse  can  gal- 
lop, so  fast  as  a  bird  can  fly:  therefore  the  bird  must  be  the 
best  messenger,  and  I  should  be  paid  best  price  —  hey, 
father  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,  my  dear/'  said  his  father,  laugh- 
ing, "  I  wish  you  may  make  the  best  messenger  in  Ireland 
of  your  pigeon  ;  but  all  I  beg,  my  dear  boy,  is,  that  you 
won't  neglect  our  shop  for  your  pigeon :  for  I  've  a  notion, 
we  have  a  better  chance  of  making  a  fortune  by  the  shop 
than  by  the  white  pigeon." 

Brian  never  neglected  the  shop  ;  but  at  his  leisure  hours 
he  amused  himself  with  training  his  pigeon  ;  and,  after 
much  patience,  he  at  last  succeeded  so  well,  that  one  day  he 
went  to  his  father,  and  offered  to  send  him  word  by  his 
pigeon  what  beef  was  a  pound  in  the  market  at  Ballyna- 
grish,  where  he  was  going  —  "  The  pigeon  will  be  home  long 
before  me,  father ;  and  he  will  come  in  at  the  kitchen  win- 
dow, and  light  upon  the  dresser:  then  you  must  untie  the 
little  note  which  I  shall  have  tied  under  his  left  wing,  and 
you  '11  know  the  price  of  beef  directly." 

The  pigeon  carried  his  message  well,  and  Brian  was  much 
delighted  with  his  success.  He  soon  was  employed  by  the 
neighbours,  who  were  amused  by  Brian's  fondness  for  his 
swift  messenger ;  and  soon  the  fame  of  the  white  pigeon 
was  spread  among  all  who  frequented  the  markets  and  fairs 
of  Somerville. 

At  one  of  these  fairs  a  set  of  men  of  desperate  fortunes 
met  to  drink,  and  to  concert  plans  of  robberies.  Their 
place  of  meeting  was  at  the  alehouse  of  Mr.  Cox,  the  man 
who,  as  our  readers  may  remember,  was  offended  by  Mr. 
Somerville's  hinting  that  he  was  fond  of  drinking  and  of 
quarrelling,  and  who  threatened  vengeance  for  having  been 
refused  the  new  inn. 

While  these  men  were  talking  ever  their  schemes,  one  of 
chem  observed  that  one  of  their  companions  was  not  arrived ; 
another  said,  no ;  he 's  six  miles  off,  said  another ;  and  a 


866  THE     WHITE     PIGEON. 

third  wished  that  he  could  make  him  hear  at  that  distance. 
This  turned  the  discourse  upon  the  difficulties  of  sending 
messages  secretly  and  quickly.  Cox's  son,  a  lad  of  about 
nineteen,  who  was  one  of  this  gang,  mentioned  the  white 
carrier-pigeon,  and  he  was  desired  to  try  all  means  to  get 
it  into  his  possession.  Accordingly,  the  next  day  young 
Cox  went  to  Brian  O'Neill,  and  tried,  at  first  by  persuasion, 
and  afterward  by  threats,  to  prevail  upon  him  to  give  up 
the  pigeon.  Brian  was  resolute  in  his  refusal,  more  espe- 
cially when  the  petitioner  began  to  bully  him. 

"  If  we  can't  have  it  by  fair  means,  we  will  by  foul,"  said 
Cox  ;  and  a  few  days  afterward  the  pigeon  was  gone.  Brian 
searched  for  it  in  vain  —  inquired  from  all  the  neighbours 
if  they  had  seen  it,  and  applied,  but  to  no  purpose,  to  Cox. 
He  swore  that  he  knew  nothing  about  the  matter  —  but  this 
was  false,  for  it  was  he  who,  during  the  night-time,  had 
stolen  the  white  pigeon ;  he  conveyed  it  to  his  employers, 
and  they  rejoiced  that  they  had  gotten  it  into  their  posses- 
sion, as  they  thought  it  would  serve  them  for  a  useful  mes- 
senger. 

Nothing  can  be  more  short-sighted  than  cunning.  The 
very  means  which  these  people  took  to  secure  secrecy  were 
the  means  of  bringing  their  plots  to  light.  They  endea- 
voured to  teach  the  pigeon  which  they  had  stolen  to  carry 
messages  for  them  in  a  part  of  the  country  at  some  distance 
from  Somerville ;  and  when  they  fancied  it  had  forgotten 
its  former  habits  and  its  old  master,  they  thought  that  they 
might  venture  to  employ  him  nearer  home.  However,  the 
pigeon  had  a  better  memory  than  they  imagined.  They  loosed 
him  from  a  bag  near  the  town  of  Ballynagrish,  in  hopes 
that  he  would  stop  at  the  house  of  Cox's  cousin,  which  was 
on  the  road  between  Ballynagrish  and  Somerville.  But  the 
pigeon,  though  he  had  been  purposely  fed  at  this  house  foi 
a  week  before  his  trial,  did  not  stop  there,  but  flew  on  to 
his  old  master's  house  in  Somerville,  and  pecked  at  the 
kitchen  window,  as  he  had  formerly  been  taught  to  do.   His 


THE     WHITE     PIGEON.  367 

master  fortunately  was  within  hearing,  and  poor  Brian  raa 
with  the  gieatest  joy  to  open  the  window,  and  to  let  him  in. 

"  0,  father,  here 's  my  white  pigeon  come  back  of  his 
own  accord,"  exclaimed  Brian ;  "  I  must  run  and  show  him 
to  my  mother." 

At  this  instant  the  pigeon  spread  his  wings,  and  Brian 
discovered  under  one  of  them  a  small  and  very  dirty-looking 
billet:  he  opened  it  in  his  father's  presence:  the  scrawl 
was  scarcely  legible,  but  these  words  were  at  length  deci- 
phered : 

"  Thare  are  eight  of  uz  sworn ;  I  send  yo  at  bottom  thare 
names.  We  meat  at  tin  this  nite  at  my  fader's,  and  have 
harms  and  all  in  radiness  to  brak  into  the  grate  ouse.  Mr. 
Summervill  is  to  lye  out  to  night  —  keep  the  pigeon  untill 
to  morrow.     For  ever  yours, 

"  MURTAGH  COX,  JUN." 

Scarcely  had  they  finished  reading  this  note  than  both 
father  and  son  exclaimed,  "  Let  us  go  and  show  it  to  Mr. 
Somerville."  Before  they  sat  out,  they  had,  however,  the 
prudence  to  secure  the  pigeon,  so  that  he  could  not  be  seen 
by  any  one  but  themselves. 

Mr.  Somerville,  in  consequence  of  this  fortunate  disco- 
very, took  proper  measures  for  the  apprehension  of  the 
eight  men  who  had  sworn  to  rob  his  house ;  and  when  they 
were  all  safely  lodged  in  the  county  jail,  he  sent  for  Brian 
O'Neill  and  his  father ;  and  after  thanking  them  for  the  ser- 
vice they  had  done  him,  he  counted  out  ten  bright  guineas 
upon  the  table,  and  pushed  them  towards  Brian,  saying,  "I 
suppose  you  know  that  a  reward  of  ten  guineas  was  offered 
some  weeks  ago  for  the  discovery  of  John  MacDermod,  one 
of  the  eight  men  whom  we  have  just  taken  up." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Brian  ;  "  I  did  not  know  it,  and  I  did  not 
bring  that  note  to  you  to  get  ten  guineas,  but  because  I 
thought  it  was  right.  I  do  n't  want  to  be  paid  for  doing 
right." 


868  THE     WHITE     PIGEON. 

"  That  %  my  own  boy,"  said  his  father.  "  We  thank  you, 
sir,  but  we'll  not  take  the  money;  I  don't  like  to  take  the 
price  of  blood."  * 

"  I  know  the  difference,  my  good  friends,"  said  Mr.  Somer- 
ville,  "  between  vile  informers  and  courageous  honest  men." 

"Why,  as  to  that,  please  your  honour,  though  we  are 
p3or,  I  hope  we  are  honest." 

"And,  what  is  more,"  said  Mr.  Somerville,  "I  have  a 
notion  that  you  would  continue  to  be  honest,  even  if  you 
were  rich." 

"Will  you,  my  good  lad,"  continued' Mr.  Somerville,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "  will  you  trust  me  with  your  white 
pigeon  a  few  days  ?" 

"  0,  and  welcome,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  smile ;  and 
he  brought  the  pigeon  to  Mr.  Somerville  when  it  was  dark, 
and  nobody  saw  him.  A  few  days  afterward,  Mr.  Somer- 
ville called  at  O'Neill's  house,  and  bid  him  and  his  son  fol- 
low him.  They  followed  him  till  he  stopped  opposite  to  the 
bow-window  of  the  new  inn.  The  carpenter  had  just  put 
up  a  sign,  which  was  covered  with  a  bit  of  carpeting. 

"  Go  up  the  ladder,  will  you,"  said  Mr.  Somerville  to 
Brian,  "  and  pull  that  sign  straight,  for  it  hangs  quite 
crooked.  There,  now  it  is  straight.  Now  pull  off  the  car- 
pet, and  let  us  see  the  new  sign." 

The  boy  pulled  off  the  cover,  and  saw  a  white  pigeon 
painted  upon  the  sign,  and  the  name  of  O'Neill  in  large 
letters  underneath. 

"  Take  care  you  do  not  tumble  down  and  break  your  neck 
upon  this  joyful  occasion,"  said  Mr.  Somerville,  who  saw 
that  Brian's  surprise  was  too  great  for  his  situation.  "  Come 
down  from  the  ladder,  and  wish  your  father  joy  of  being 
master  of  the  new  inn  called  '  The  White  Pigeon/  And  I 
wish  him  joy  of  having  such  a  son  as  you  are.  Those  who 
bring  up  their  children  well  will  certainly  be  rewarded  for 
it,  be  they  poor  or  rich." 


•  This  answer  was  really  piven  upon  a  similar  occasiuu. 


THE  ORPHANS 


Near  the  ruins  of  the  castle  of  Rossmore,  in  Ireland,  it 
a  small  cabin,  in  which  there  once  lived  a  widcw  and  her 
four  children.  As  long  as  she  was  able  to  work,  she  was 
very  industrious,  and  was  accounted  the  best  spinner  in  the 
parish ;  but  she  overworked  herself  at  last,  and  fell  ill,  so 
that  she  could  not  sit  to  her  wheel  as  she  used  to  do,  and 
was  obliged  to  give  it  up  to  her  eldest  daughter,  Mary. 

Mary  was  at  this  time  about  twelve  years  old.  One  even- 
ing she  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  her  mother's  bed,  spinning, 
and  her  little  brother  and  sisters  were  gathered  round  the 
fire,  eating  their  potatoes  and  milk  for  supper. 

"  Bless  them,  the  poor  young  creatures  !"  said  the  widow  ; 
who,  as  she  lay  on  the  bed,  which  she  knew  must  be  her 
death-bed,  was  thinking  of  what  would  become  of  her  chil- 
dren after  she  was  gone.  Mary  stopped  her  wheel,  for  she 
was  afraid  that  the  noise  of  it  had  waked  her  mother,  and 
would  hinder  her  from  going  to  sleep  again. 

"  No  need  to  stop  the  wheel,  Mary  dear,  for  me,"  said 
her  mother ;  "  I  was  not  asleep  ;  nor  is  it  that  which  keeps 
me  from  sleep.     But  do  n't  overwork  yourself,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  no  fear  of  that,"  replied  Mary ;  "  I  'm  strong  and 
hearty." 

"  So  was  I  once,"  said  her  mother. 

"  And  so  will  you  be  again,  I  hope,"  said  Mary,  "  wnen 
the  fine  weather  comes  again." 

"  The  fine  weather  will  never  come  again  to  me,"  said 
24  (369) 


370  THE     ORPHANS. 

her  mother  ;  "  'tis  a  folly,  Mary,  to  hope  for  that ;  but  what 
I  hope  is,  that  you'll  find  some  friend— some  h^lp- 
orphans  as  you'll  soon  all  of  you  be.  And  one  thing  com- 
forts my  heart,  even  as  I  am  lying  here,  that  not  a  soul  in 
the  wide  world  I  am  leaving  has  to  complain  of  me. 
Though  poor,  I  have  lived  honest,  and  I  have  brought  you 
up  to  the  same,  Mary ;  and  I  am  sure  the  little  ones  will 
take  after  you  ;  for  you  '11  be  good  to  them  —  as  good  to  them 
as  you  can." 

Here  the  children,  who  had  finished  eating  their  suppers, 
came  round  the  bed  to  listen  to  what  their  mother  was  say- 
ing. She  was  tired  of  speaking,  for  she  was  very  weak ; 
but  she  shook  their  little  hands,  as  they  laid  them  on  the 
bed;  and  joining  them  all  together,  she  said,  "Bless  you, 
dears  —  bless  you  —  love  and  help  one  another  all  you  can 
—  good-night  —  good-bye." 

Mary  took  the  children  away  to  their  bed,  for  she  saw 
that  their  mother  was  too  ill  to  say  more  ;  but  Mary  did  net 
herself  know  how  ill  she  was.  Her  mother  never  spoke 
rightly  afterward,  but  talked  in  a  confused  way  about  some 
debts,  and  one  in  particular,  which  she  owed  to  a  school- 
mistress for  Mary's  schooling ;  and  then  she  charged  Mary 
to  go  and  pay  it,  because  she  was  not  able  to  go  in  with  it. 
At  the  end  of  the  week  she  was  dead  and  buried,  and  the 
orphans  were  left  alone  in  their  cabin. 

The  two  youngest  girls,  Peggy  and  Nancy,  were  six  and 
seven  years  old ;  Edmund  was  not  yet  nine,  but  he  was  a 
stout-grown  healthy  boy,  and  well-disposed  to  work.  He 
had  been  used  to  bring  home  turf  from  the  bog  on  his  back, 
to  lead  cart-horses,  and  often  to  go  on  errands  for  gentle- 
men's families,  who  paid  him  sixpence  or  a  shilling,  accord- 
ing to  the  distance  which  he  went ;  so  that  Edmund,  by 
some  or  other  of  these  little  employments,  was,  as  he  said, 
likely  enough  to  earn  his  bread ;  and  he  told  Mary  to  have 
a  good  heart,  for  that  he  should  every  year  grow  able  to  do 
more   and   more,    and   that  he    should   never    forget  his 


THE     ORPHANS.  37  L 

mother's  words,  when  she  last  gave  him  her  blessing,  and 
joined  their  hands  all  together. 

As  for  Peggy  and  Nancy,  it  was  little  that  they  could  do ; 
but  they  were  good  children  ;  and  Mary,  when  she  consi- 
dered that  so  much  depended  upon  her,  was  resolved  to 
exert  herself  to  the  utmost.  Her  first  care  was  to  pay  those 
debts  which  her  mother  had  mentioned  to  her,  for  which 
she  left  money  done  up  carefully  in  separate  papers.  When 
all  these  were  paid  away,  there  was  not  enough  left  to  pay 
both  the  rent  of  the  cabin  and  a  year's  schooling  for  herself 
and  sisters,  which  was  due  to  the  schoolmistress  in  a  neigh- 
bouring village. 

Mary  was  in  hopes  that  the  rent  would  not  be  called  for 
immediately  ;  but  in  this  she  was  disappointed.  Mr.  Har- 
vey, the  gentleman  on  whose  estate  she  lived,  was  in  Eng- 
land ;  and,  in  his  absence,  all  was  managed  by  a  Mr. 
Hopkins,  an  agent,  who  was  a  hard  man*  The  driver 
came  to  Mary  about  a  week  after  her  mother's  death,  and 
told  her  that  the  rent  must  be  brought  in  the  next  day,  and 
that  she  must  leave  the  cabin,  for  a  new  tenant  was  coming 
into  it ;  that  she  was  too  young  to  have  a  house  to  herself, 
and  that  the  only  thing  she  had  to  do  was,  to  get  some 
neighbour  to  take  her  and  her  brother  and  sisters  in  for 
charity's  sake. 

The  driver  finished  by  hinting  that  she  would  not  be  so 
hardly  used,  if  she  had  not  brought  upon  herself  the  ill- 
will  of  Miss  Alice,  the  agent's  daughter.  Mary,  it  is  true, 
had  refused  to  give  Miss  Alice  a  goat,  upon  which  she  had 
set  her  fancy ;  but  this  was  the  only  offence  of  which  she  had 
been  guilty:  and  at  the  time  she  refused  it,  her  mother 
wanted  the  goat's  milk,  which  was  the  only  thing  she  then 
liked  to  drink. 

Mary  went  immediately  to  Mr.  Hopkins,  the  agent,  to 
pay  her  rent ;  and  she  begged  of  him  to  let  her  stay  ano- 

*  A  hard-hearted  man. 


372  THE     ORPHANS. 

ther  year  in  her  cabin  ;  but  this  he  refused.  It  was  now 
the  25th  of  September,  and  he  said  that  the  new  tenant 
must  come  in  on  the  29th,  so  that  she  must  quit  it  directly. 
Mary  could  not  bear  the  thoughts  of  begging  any  of  the 
neighbours  to  take  her  and  her  brothers  and  sisters  in  for 
charity's  sake,  for  the  neighbours  were  all  poor  enough  them- 
selves ;  so  she  bethought  herself  that  she  might  find  shel- 
ter in  the  ruins  of  the  old  castle  of  Rossmore,  where  she 
and  her  brother  in  better  times  had  often  played  at  hide- 
and-seek.  The  kitchen,  and  two  other  rooms  near  it,  were 
yet  covered  in  tolerably  well ;  and  a  little  thatch,  she  thought, 
would  make  them  comfortable  through  the  winter.  The 
agent  consented  to  let  her  and  her  brother  and  sisters  go  in 
there,  upon  her  paying  him  half  a  guinea  in  hand,  and 
promising  to  pay  the  same  yearly. 

Into  these  lodgings  the  orphans  now  removed,  taking 
with  them  two  bedsteads,  a  stool,  a  chair,  and  a  table,  a  sort 
of  press,  which  contained  what  little  clothes  they  had,  and 
a  chest,  in  which  they  had  two  hundred  of  meal.  The  chest 
was  carried  for  them  by  some  of  the  charitable  neighbours, 
who  likewise  added  to  their  scanty  stock  of  potatoes  and 
turf  what  would  make  it  last  through  the  winter. 

These  children  were  well  thought  of  and  pitied,  because 
their  mother  was  known'to  have  been  all  her  life  honest  and 
industrious. 

"  Sure,"  says  one  of  the  neighbours,  "  we  can  do  no  less 
than  give  a  helping  hand  to  the  poor  orphans,  that  are  so 
ready  to  help  themselves."  So  one  helped  to  thatch  the 
room  in  which  they  were  to  sleep,  and  another  took  their 
cow  to  graze  upon  his  bit  of  land,  on  condition  of  having 
half  the  milk ;  and  one  and  all  said,  they  should  be  wel- 
come to  take  share  of  their  potatoes  and  buttermilk,  if  they 
should  find  their  own  ever  fall  short. 

The  half-guinea  which  Mr.  Hopkins,  the  agent,  required  for 
letting  Mary  into  the  castle  was  part  of  what  she  had  to  pay 
to  tne  schoolmistress,  to  whom  above  a  guinea  was  due.  Mary 


THE     ORPHANS.  373 

went  to  her,  and  took  her  goat  along  with  her,  and  ofl'ered 
it  in  part  payment  for  the  debt,  as  she  had  no  more  money 
ieft ;  but  the  schoolmistress  would  not  receive  the  goat.  She 
said  that  she  could  afford  to  wait  for  her  money  till  Mary 
was  able  to  pay  it ;  that  she  knew  her  to  be  an  honest  indus- 
trious little  girl,  and  she  would  trust  her  with  more  than 
a  guinea.  Mary  thanked  her ;  and  she  was  glad  to  tak9 
the  goat  home  again,  as  she  was  very  fond  of  it. 

Now,  being  settled  in  their  house,  they  went  every  day 
regularly  to  work.  Mary  spun  nine  cuts  a  day,  besides 
doing  all  that  was  to  be  done  in  the  house ;  Edmund  got 
fourpence  a  day  by  his  work ;  and  Peggy  and  Anne  earned 
twopence  apiece  at  the  paper-mills  near  Navan,  where  they 
were  employed  to  sort  rags,  and  to  cut  them  into  small 
pieces. 

When  they  had  done  work  one  day,  Anne  went  to  the 
master  of  the  paper-mill,  and  asked  him  if  she  might  have 
two  sheets  of  large  white  paper,  which  were  lying  on  the 
press ;  she  offered  a  penny  for  the  paper,  but  the  master 
would  not  take  anything  from  her,  but  gave  her  the  paper, 
when  he  found  that  she  wanted  it  to  make  a  garland  for  her 
mother's  grave.  Anne  and  Peggy  cut  out  the  garland,  and 
Mary,  when  it  was  finished,  went  along  with  them  and 
Edmund  to  put  it  up :  it  was  just  a  month  after  their  mother's 
death.* 

It  happened  that,  at  the  time  the  orphans  were  putting 
up  this  garland,  two  young  ladies,  who  were  returning  home 
after  their  evening  walk,  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  church- 
yard, to  look  at  the  red  light  which  the  setting  sun  cast 
upon  the  window  of  the  church.  As  the  ladies  were  stand- 
ing at  the  gate,  they  heard  a  voice  near  them  crying,  "  0 
mother !  mother !  Are  you  gone  for  ever  X"  —  They  could 
not  see  any  one  ;  so  they  walked  softly  round  to  the  other 

*  Garlands  are  usually  put  on  the  graves  of  young  people ;  these 
children,  perhaps,  did  not  know  this. 


374  THE     ORPHANS. 

side  of  the  church,  and  there  they  saw  Mary,  kneeling 
beside  a  grave,  on  which  her  brother  and  sisters  were  hang- 
ing their  white  garlands. 

The  children  all  stood  still  when  they  saw  the  two  ladies 
passing  near  them ;  but  Mary  did  not  know  anybody  was 
passing,  for  her  face  was  hid  in  her  hands. 

Isabella  and  Caroline  (so  these  ladies  were  called)  would 
not  disturb  the  poor  children,  but  they  stopped  in  the  vil- 
lage to  inquire  about  them.  It  was  at  the  house  of  the 
schoolmistress  that  they  stopped  ;  and  she  gave  them  a  good 
account  of  these  orphans.  She  particularly  commended 
Mary's  honesty,  in  having  immediately  paid  all  her  mother's 
debts  to  the  utmost  farthing,  as  far  as  her  money  would  go : 
she  told  the  ladies  how  Mary  had  been  turned  out  of  her 
house,  and  how  she  had  offered  her  goat,  of  which  she  was 
very  fond,  to  discharge  a  debt  due  for  her  schooling ;  and, 
in  short,  the  schoolmistress,  who  had  known  Mary  for  seve- 
ral years,  spoke  so  well  of  her,  that  these  ladies  resolved 
that  they  would  go  to  the  old  castle  of  Rossmore  to  see  hei 
the  next  day. 

When  they  went  there,  they  found  the  room  in  which 
the  children  lived  as  clean  and  neat  as  such  a  ruined  place 
could  be  made.  Edmund  was  out  working  with  a  farmer, 
Mary  was  spinning,  and  her  little  sisters  were  measuring 
out  some  bog-berries,  of  which  they  had  gathered  a  basket- 
ful for  sale.  Isabella,  after  telling  Mary  what  an  excellent 
character  she  had  heard  of  her,  inquired  what  it  was  she 
most  wanted ;  and  Mary  said,  that  she  had  just  worked  up 
all  her  flax,  and  she  was  most  in  want  of  more  flax  for  her 
wheel. 

Isabella  promised  that  she  would  send  her  a  fresh  supply 
of  flax,  and  Caroline  bought  the  bog-berries  from  the  little 
girls,  and  gave  them  money  enough  to  buy  a  pound  of  coarse 
cotton  for  knitting,  as  Mary  said  that  she  could  teach  them 
how  to  knit. 

The  supply  of  flax,  which  Isabella  sent  the  next  day,  was 


THE     ORPHANS.  375 

of  great  service  to  Mary,  as  it  kept  her  in  employment  for 
above  a  month :  and  when  she  sold  the  yarn  which  she  had 
spun  with  it,  she  had  money  enough  to  buy  some  warm 
flannel  for  winter  wear.  Besides  spinning  well,  she  had 
learned,  at  school,  to  do  plain-work  tolerably  neatly,  and 
Isabella  and  Caroline  employed  her  to  work  for  them  ;  by 
which  she  earned  a  great  deal  more  than  she  could  by  spin- 
ning. At  ner  leisure  hours  she  taught  her  sisters  to  read 
and  write  ;  and  Edmund,  with  part  of  the  money  which  he 
earned  by  his  work  out  of  doors,  paid  a  schoolmaster  for 
teaching  him  a  little  arithmetic.  When  the  winter-nights 
came  on,  he  used  to  light  his  rush  candles  for  Mary  to  work 
by.  He  had  gathered  and  stripped  a  good  provision  of 
rushes  in  the  month  of  August ;  and  a  neighbour  gave  him 
grease  to  dip  them  in. 

One  evening,  just  as  he  had  lighted  his  candle,  a  footman 
came  in,  who  was  sent  by  Isabella  with  some  plain-work  to 
Mary.  This  servant  was  an  Englishman  ;  and  he  was  but 
newly  come  over  to  Ireland.  The  rush-candles  caught  his 
attention ;  for  he  had  never  seen  any  of  them  before,  as  he 
came  from  a  part  of  England  where  they  were  not  used.* 

*  See  White's  "  Natural  History  of  Selborne,"  page  198,  quarto 
edition.  This  eloquent,  well-informed,  and  benevolent  writer  thought 
{hat  no  subject  of  rural  economy,  which  could  be  of  general  utility, 
was  beneath  his  notice.  We  cannot  forbear  quoting  from  him  the 
following  passage : — 

"  The  proper  species  of  rush  for  our  purpose  seems  to  be  the  juncua 
effusua,  or  common  soft  rush,  which  is  to  be  found  in  moist  pastures, 
ty  the  sides  of  streams,  and  under  hedges.  The  rushes  are  in  the 
best  condition  in  the  height  of  summer,  but  may  be  gathered  so  as 
to  serve  the  purpose  well  quite  on  to  autumn.  It  would  be  needless 
to  add,  that  the  largest  and  longest  are  best.  Decayed  labourers, 
women,  and  children  make  it  their  business  to  procure  and  prepare 
them.  As  soon  as  they  are  cut,  they  must  be  flung  into  water,  and 
kept  there ;  for  otherwise  they  will  dry  and  shrink,  and  the  peel  will 
not  run.  At  first  a  person  would  find  it  no  easy  matter  to  divest  a 
rush  of  its  peel  or  rind,  so  as  to  leave  one  regular,  narrow,  even  rib 


376  THE     ORPHANS. 

Edmund,  who  was  ready  to  oblige  and  proud  that  his 
jandies  were   noticed,  showed  the  Englishman   how  they 

from  top  to  bottom,  that  may  support  the  pith  :  but  this,  like  other 
feats,  soon  becomes  familiar,  even  to  children ;  and  we  have  seen  an 
old  woman,  stone  blind,  performing  this  business  with  great  despatch, 
and  seldom  failing  to  strip  them  with  the  nicest  regularity.  When 
these  junci  are  thus  far  prepared,  they  must  lie  out  on  the  grass  to 
be  bleached,  and  take  the  dew  for  some  nights,  and  afterward  be 
dried  in  the  sun.  Some  address  is  required  in  dipping  these  rushes 
in  the  scalding  fat  or  grease ;  but  this  knack  is  also  to  be  attained 
by  practice.  A  pound  of  common  grease  may  be  procured  for  four- 
pence,  and  about  six  pounds  of  grease  will  dip  a  pound  of  rushes, 
and  one  pound  of  rushes  may  be  bought  for  one  shilling;  so  that  a 
pound  of  rushes,  medicated  and  ready  for  use,  will  cost  three  shil- 
lings. If  men  that  keep  bees  will  mix  a  little  wax  with  the  grease, 
it  will  give  it  consistency,  and  render  it  more  cleanly,  and  make  the 
rushes  burn  longer.     Mutton  suet  would  have  the  same  effect. 

"A  good  rush,  which  measured  in  length  two  feet  four  inches, 
being  minuted,  burned  only  three  minutes  short  of  an  hour.  In  a 
pound  of  dry  rushes,  avoirdupois,  which  I  caused  to  be  weighed  and 
numbered,  we  found  upwards  of  one  thousand  six  hundred  indivi- 
duals. Now  suppose  each  of  these  burns,  one  with  another,  only 
half  an  hour,  then  a  poor  man  will  purchase  eight  hundred  hours  of 
light,  a  time  exceeding  thirty-three  entire  days,  for  three  shillings. 
According  to  this  account,  each  rush,  before  dipping,  costs  1-33  of  a 
farthing,  and  1-11  afterward.  Thus  a  poor  family  will  enjoy  five 
hours  and  a  half  of  comfortable  light  for  a  farthing.  An  experienced 
old  housekeeper  assures  me  that  one  pound  and  a  half  of  rushes 
completely  supply  his  family  the  year  round,  since  working-people 
burn  no  candles  in  the  long  days,  because  they  rise  and  go  to  bed 
by  daylight. 

"Little  farmers  use  rushes  much  in  the  short  days,  both  morning 
and  evening,  in  the  dairy  and  kitchen  :  but  the  very  poor,  who  are 
always  the  worst  economists,  and  therefore  must  continue  very  poor, 
buy  a  halfpenny  candle  every  evening,  which,  in  their  blowing,  open 
rooms,  does  not  burn  much  more  than  two  hours.  Thus  they  have 
only  two  hours'  light  for  their  money,  iiotead  of  eleven." 

If  Mr.  White  had  taken  the  trouble  of  extending  his  calculations, 
he  would  have  found,  that  the  seemingly  trifling  article  of  economy 
Which  he  recommends  would  save  to  the  nation  a  eum  equal  to  the 
produce  of  a  burdensome  tax. 


THE     ORPHANS.  377 

were  made,  and  gave  him  a  bundle  of  rushes.  The  servant 
Uras  pleased  -with  his  good-nature  in  this  trifling  instance, 
and  remembered  it  long  after  it  was  forgotten  by  Edmund. 

"Whenever  his  master  wanted  to  send  a  messenger  any 
where,  Gilbert  (for  that  was  the  servant's  name)  always 
employed  his  little  friend  Edmund,  whom,  upon  further 
acquaintance,  he  liked  better  and  better.  He  found  that 
Edmund  was  both  quick  and  exact  in  executing  commissions. 
One  day,  after  he  had  waited  a  great  while  at  a  gentleman's 
house  for  an  answer  to  a  letter,  he  was  so  impatient  to  get 
home  that  he  ran  off  without  it.  When  he  was  questioned 
by  Gilbert,  why  he  did  not  bring  an  answer,  he  did  not 
attempt  to  make  any  excuse:  he  did  not  say,  "  There  was  no 
answer,  please  your  honour,"  or  "  Tliey  bid  me  not  wait," 
&c,  but  he  told  exactly  the  truth;  and  though  Gilbert 
scolded  him  for  being  so  impatient  as  not  to  wait,  yet  his 
telling  the  truth  was  more  to  the  boy's  advantage  than  any 
excuse  he  could  have  made.  After  this,  he  was  always 
believed  when  he  said,  "  There  was  no  answer,"  or,  "  They 
bid  me  not  wait;"  for  Gilbert  knew  that  he  would  not  tell  a 
lie  to  save  himself  from  being  scolded. 

The  orphans  continued  to  assist  one  another  in  their  work, 
according  to  their  strength  and  abilities :  and  they  went  on 
in  this  manner  for  three  years  ;  and  with  what  Mary  got  by 
her  spinning  and  plain-work,  and  Edmund  by  leading  car- 
horses,  going  on  errands,  &c,  and  with  little  Peggy  and 
Anne's  earnings,  the  family  contrived  to  live  comfortably. 
Isabella  and  Caroline  often  visited  them,  and  sometimes 
gave  them  clothes,  and  sometimes  flax  or  cotton  for  their 
spinning  and  knitting ;  and  these  children  did  not  expect, 
that  because  the  ladies  did  something  for  them,  they  should 
do  everything :  they  did  not  grow  idle  01  wasteful. 

When  Edmund  was  about  twelve  years  old,  his  friend 
Gilbert  sent  for  him  one  day,  and  told  him  that  his  master 
had  given  him  leave  to  have  a  boy  in  the  house  to  assist 
him,  and  that  his  master  told  him  he  might  c.V  ose  one  in 


378  THE     ORPHANS. 

the  neighbourhood.  Several  were  anxious  to  get  into  such 
a  place  ;  but  Gilbert  said  that  he  preferred  Edmund  before 
them  all,  because  he  knew  him  to  be  an  industrious,  honest, 
good-natured  lad,  who  always  told  the  truth.  So  Edmund 
went  into  service  at  the  vicarage;  and  his  master  was  the 
father  of  Isabella  and  Caroline.  He  found  his  new  way  of 
life  very  pleasant,  for  he  was  well  fed,  well  clothed,  and 
well  treated  ;  and  he  every  day  learned  more  of  his  business, 
in  which  at  first  he  was  rather  awkward.  He  was  mindful 
to  do  all  that  Mr,  Gilbert  required  of  him,  and  he  was  so 
obliging  to  all  his  fellow-servants  that  they  could  not  help 
liking  him ;  but  there  was  one  thing  which  was  at  first 
rather  disagreeable  to  him,  —  he  was  obliged  to  wear  shoes 
and  stockings,  and  they  hurt  his  feet.  Besides  this,  when 
he  waited  at  dinner,  he  made  such  a  noise  in  walking  that 
his  fellow-servants  laughed  at  him.  He  told  his  sister  Mary 
of  this  his  distress  ;  and  she  made  for  him,  after  many  trials, 
a  pair  of  cloth  shoes,  with  soles  of  platted  hemp.'55'  In  these 
he  could  walk  without  making  the  least  noise  :  and  as  these 
shoes  could  not  be  worn  out  of  doors,  he  was  always  sure 
to  change  them  before  he  went  out  of  doors ;  and  conse- 
quently he  had  always  clean  shoes  to  wear  in  the  house.  It 
was  soon  remarked  by  the  men-servants  that  he  had  left  off 
clumping  so  heavily  ;  and  it  was  observed  by  the  maids  that 
he  never  dirtied  the  stairs  or  passages  with  his  shoes.  When 
he  was  praised  for  these  things,  he  said  it  was  his  sister 
Mary  who  should  be  thanked,  and  not  he  ;  and  he  showed 
the  shoes  which  she  had  made  for  him. 

Isabella's  maid  bespoke  a  pair  immediately,  and  sent 
Mary  a  pretty  piece  of  calico  for  the  outside.  The  last- 
maker  made  a  last  for  her,  and  over  this  Mary  sewed  the 
calico  vamps  tight.  Her  brother  advised  her  to  try  platted 
packthread  instead  of  hemp  for  the  soles ;  and  she  found 

*  The  author  has  S3en  a  pair  of  shoes,  such  as  are  here  described, 
made  in  a  few  hours. 


THE     ORPHANS.  379 

that  tfiis  looked  more  neat  than  the  hemp  soles,  and  was 
likely  to  last  longer.  She  platted  the  packthread  together 
in  strands  of  about  half  an  inch  thick ;  and  these  were 
sewed  firmly  together  at  the  bottom  of  the  shoe.  When 
they  were  finished,  they  fitted  well,  and  the  maid  showed 
them  to  her  mistress.  Isabella  and  Caroline  were  so  well 
pleased  with  Mary's  ingenuity  and  kindness  to  her  brother, 
that  they  bespoke  from  her  two  dozen  of  these  shoes,  and 
gave  her  three  yards  of  coloured  fustian  to  make  them  of, 
and  galloon  for  the  binding.  When  the  shoes  were  com- 
pleted, Isabella  and  Caroline  disposed  of  them  for  her  among 
their  acquaintance,  and  got  three  shillings  a  pair  for  them. 
The  young  ladies,  as  soon  as  they  had  collected  the  money, 
walked  io  the  old  castle,  where  they  found  everything  neat 
and  clean  as  usual.  They  had  great  pleasure  in  giving  to 
this  industrious  girl  the  reward  of  her  ingenuity,  which  she 
received  with  some  surprise  and  more  gratitude.  They 
advised  her  to  continue  the  shoemaking  trade,  as  they  found 
the  shoes  were  liked,  and  they  knew  that  they  could  have 
a  sale  for  them  at  the  Repository  in  Dublin. 

Mary,  encouraged  by  these  kind  friends,  went  on  with 
her  little  manufacture  with  increased  activity.  Peggy  and 
Anne  platted  the  packthread,  and  pasted  the  vamps  and  the 
lining  together,  ready  for  her.  Edmund  was  allowed  tc 
come  home  for  an  hour  every  morning,  provided  he  was 
back  again  before  eight  o'clock.  It  was  summer-time,  and 
he  got  up  early,  because  he  liked  to  go  home  to  see  his  sis- 
ters, and  he  took  his  share  in  the  manufactory.  It  was  his 
business  to  hammer  the  soles  flat:  and  as  soon  as  he  came 
home  every  morning,  he  performed  nis  task  with  so  much 
cheerfulness,  and  sung  so  merrily  at  his  work,  that  the  hour 
of  his  arrival  was  always  an  hour  of  joy  to  the  family. 

Mary  had  presently  employment  enough  upon  her  hands. 
Orders  came  to  her  for  shoes  from  many  families  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  she  could  not  get  them  finished  fast 
enough.     She,  however,  in  the  midst  of  her  hurry,  found 


580  THE     ORPHANS. 

time  to  m.ke  a  very  pretty  pair  with  neat  roses  as  a  present 
for  her  schoolmistress,  who,  now  that  she  saw  her  pupil  in  a 
good  state  of  business,  consented  to  receive  the  amount  of 
her  old  debt.  Several  of  the  children  who  went  to  her 
school  were  delighted  with  the  sight  of  Mary's  present,  and 
went  to  the  little  manufactory  at  Rossmore  castle,  to  find 
out  how  these  shoes  were  made.  Some  went  from  curiosity, 
others  from  idleness ;  but  when  they  saw  how  happy  the 
little  shoemakers  seemed  while  busy  at  work,  they  longed 
to  take  some  share  in  what  was  going  forward.  One  begged 
Mary  to  let  her  plat  some  packthread  for  the  soles  ;  another 
helped  Peggy  and  Anne  to  paste  in  the.  linings ;  and  all  who 
could  get  employment  were  pleased,  for  the  idle  ones  were 
shoved  out  of  the  way.  It  became  a  custom  with  the  chil- 
dren of  the  village  to  resort  to  the  old  castle  at  their  play- 
hours  ;  and  it  was  surprising  to  see  how  much  was  done  by 
ten  or  twelve  of  them,  each  doing  but  a  little  at  a  time. 

One  morning  Edmund  and  the  little  manufacturers  were 
assembled  very  early,  and  they  were  busy  at  their  work, 
all  sitting  round  the  meal-chest,  which  served  them  for  a 
table. 

"My  hands  must  be  washed,"  said  George,  a  little  boy 
who  came  running  in ;  "I  ran  so  fast,  that  I  might  be  in 
time  to  go  to  work  along  with  you  all,  that  I  tumbled  down, 
and  look  how  I  have  dirtied  my  hands.  More  haste  worse 
speed.  My  hands  must  be  washed  before  I  can  do  any- 
thing." 

While  George  was  washing  his  hands,  two  other  little 
children,  who  had  just  finished  their  morning's  work,  came 
to  him  to  beg  that  he  would  blow  some  soap-bubbles  for 
them  ;  and  they  were  all  three  eagerly  blowing  bubbles,  and 
watching  them  mount  into  the  air,  when  suddenly  they  were 
startled  by  a  noise  as  loud  as  thunder :  they  were  in  a  sort 
of  outer  court  of  the  castle,  next  to  the  room  in  which  all 
their  companions  were  at  work,  and  -hey  ran  precipitately 
into  the  room,  exclaiming,  ''Did  you  tear  that  noise?" 


THE     ORPHANS.  381 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  clap  of  thunder,"  said  Mary ;  "but 
why  do  you  look  so  frightened  ?" 

As  she  finished  speaking,  another  and  a  louder  noise,  and 
the  walls  round  about  them  shook.  The  children  turned 
pale,  and  stood  motionless ;  but  Edmund  threw  down  his 
hammer,  and  ran  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  Mary 
followed  him,  and  they  saw  that  a  great  chimney  of  the  old 
ruins  at  the  farthest  side  of  the  castle  had  fallen  down,  and 
this  was  the  cause  of  the  prodigious  noise. 

The  part  of  the  castle  in  which  they  lived  seemed,  as 
Edmund  said,  to  be  perfectly  safe ;  but  the  children  of  the 
village  were  terrified,  and  thinking  that  the  whole  would 
come  tumbling  down  directly,  they  ran  to  their  homes  as 
fast  as  they  could.  Edmund,  who  was  a  courageous  lad, 
and  proud  of  showing  his  courage,  laughed  at  their  coward- 
ice ;  but  Mary,  who  was  very  prudent,  persuaded  her  bro- 
ther to  ask  an  experienced  mason,  who  was  building  at  his 
master's,  to  come  and  give  his  opinion,  whether  their  part 
of  the  castle  was  safe  to  live  in  01  not.  The  mason  came, 
and  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  rooms  they  inhabited 
might  last  through  the  winter,  but  that  no  part  of  the  ruins 
could  stand  another  year.  Mary  was  sorry  to  leave  a  place 
of  which  she  had  grown  fond,  poor  as  it  was,  having  lived 
in  it  in  peace  and  content  ever  since  her  mother's  death, 
which  was  now  nearly  four  years :  but  she  determined  to 
look  out  for  some  place  to  live  in ;  and  she  had  now  money 
enough  to  pay  the  rent  of  a  comfortable  cabin.  Without 
losing  any  time,  she  went  to  a  village  that  was  at  the  end 
of  the  avenue  leading  to  the  vicarage,  for  she  wished  to  get 
a  lodging  in  this  village,  because  it  was  so  near  to  her  bro- 
ther, and  to  the  ladies  who  had  been  so  kind  to  her.  >She 
found  that  there  was  one  newly-built  house  in  this  village 
unoccupied ;  it  belonged  to  Mr.  Harvey,  her  landlord,  who 
was  still  in  England ;  it  was  slated,  and  neatly  fitted  up 
withinside  ;  but  the  rent  of  it  was  sir  guineas  a  year,  and 
this  was  far  above  what  Mary  could   afford  to  pay :  three 


382  THE     ORPHANS. 

guineas  a  year  she  thought  was  the  highest  rent  for  which 
she  could  venture  to  engage ;  besides,  she  heard  that  seve- 
ral proposals  had  been  made  to  Mr.  Harvey  for  this  house, 
and  she  knew  that  Mr.  Hopkins,  the  agent,  was  not  her 
friend ;  therefore  she  despaired  of  getting  it.  There  was 
no  other  to  be  had  in  this  village.  Her  brother  was  still 
more  vexed  than  she  was,  that  she  could  not  find  a  place 
near  him.  He  offered  to  give  a  guinea  yearly  towards  the 
rent  out  of  his  wages ;  and  Mr.  Gilbert  spoke  about  it  for 
him  to  the  steward,  and  inquired  whether,  among  any  of 
those  who  had  given  in  proposals,  there  might  not  be  one 
who  would  be  content  with  a  part  of  the  house,  and  who 
would  join  with  Mary  in  paying  the  rent.  None  could  be 
found  but  a  woman  who  was  a  great  scold,  and  a  man  who 
was  famous  for  going  to  law  about  every  trifle  with  his 
neighbours.  Mary  did  not  choose  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  these  people  ;  she  did  not  like  to  speak  either  to  Miss 
Isabella  or  Caroline  about  it,  because  she  was  not  of  an 
encroaching  temper ;  and  when  they  had  done  so  much  for 
her,  she  would  have  been  ashamed  to  beg  for  more.  She 
returned  home  to  the  old  castle,  mortified  that  she  had  no 
good  news  to  tell  Anne  and  Peggy,  who  she  knew  expected 
to  hear  that  she  had  found  a  nice  house  for  them  in  the  vil- 
lage near  their  brother. 

"  Bad  news  for  you,  Peggy,"  cried  she,  as  soon  as  she  got 
home. 

"  And  bad  news  for  you,  Mary,"  replied  her  sisters,  who 
looked  very  sorrowful. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  Your  poor  goat  is  dead,"  replied  Peggy ;  "  there  she  is 
yonder,  lying  under  the  great  corner-stone;  you  can  just 
see  her  leg.  We  cannot  lift  the  stone  from  off  her,  it  is  so 
heavy.  Betsy  (one  of  the  neighbours'  girls)  says  she  remem- 
bers, when  she  came  to  us  to  work  early  this  morning,  she 
saw  the  goat  rubbing  itself,  and  butting  with  its  horns 
against  tho  old  tottering  chrnney" 


THE     ORPHANS 


383 


"  Many 's  the  time,"  said  Mary,  "  that  I  have  driven  the 
poor  thing  away  from  that  place  ;  I  was  always  afraid  she 
would  shake  that  great  ugly  stone  down  upon  her  at  last." 

The  goat,  which  had  long  been  the  favourite  of  Mary  and 
her  sisters,  was  lamented  by  them  all.  When  Edmund 
came,  he  helped  them  to  move  the  great  stone  from  off  the 
poor  animal,  who  was  crushed  so  as  to  be  a  terrible  sight. 
As  they  were  moving  away  this  stone,  in  order  to  bury  the 
goat,  Anne  found  an  odd-looking  piece  of  money,  which 
seemed  neither  like  a  half-penny,  nor  a  shilling,  nor  a 
guinea. 

"  Here  are  more,  a  great  many  more  of  them,"  cried 
Peggy ;  and  upon  searching  among  the  rubbish,  they  disco- 
vered a  small  iron  pot,  which  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  filled 
with  these  coins,  as  a  vast  number  of  them  were  found 
about  the  spot  where  it  fell.  On  examining  these  coins, 
Edmund  thought  that  several  of  them  looked  like  gold,  and 
the  girls  exclaimed  with  great  joy,  "  0  Mary  !  Mary  1  this 
is  come  to  us  just  in  right  time  —  now  you  can  pay  for  the 
slated  house.     Never  was  anything  so  lucky  I" 

But  Mary,  though  nothing  could  have  pleased  her  better 
than  to  be  able  to  pay  for  the  house,  observed,  that  they 
could  not  honestly  touch  any  of  this  treasure,  as  it  belonged 
to  the  owner  of  the  castle.  Edmund  agreed  with  her  that 
they  ought  to  carry  it  all  immediately  to  Mr.  Hopkins,  the 
agent.  Peggy  and  Anne  were  convinced  by  what  Mary 
said,  and  they  begged  to  go  along  with  her  and  their  bro- 
ther, to  take  the  coins  to  Mr.  Hopkins.  In  their  way  they 
stopped  at  the  vicarage,  to  show  the  treasure  to  Mr.  Gilbert, 
who  took  it  to  the  young  ladies,  Isabella  and  Caroline,  and 
told  them  how  it  had  been  found. 

It  is  not  only  by  their  superior  riches,  but  it  is  yet  more 
by  their  superior  knowledge,  that  persons  in  the  highei 
ranks  of  life  may  assist  those  in  a  lower  condition. 

Isabella,  who  hid  some  knowledge  of  chymistry,  disco- 
vered, by  touching  the  coins  with  aqui  regia  (the  only  acid 


384  THE     ORPHANS. 

which  affects  gold),  that  several  of  them  were  of  gold,  and 
consequently  of  great  value.  Caroline  also  found  out  that 
many  of  the  coins  were  very  valuable  as  curiosities.  She 
recollected  her  father  having  shown  to  her  the  prints  of  the 
coins  at  the  end  of  each  king's  reign,  in  Rapin's  History  of 
England ;  and  upon  comparing  these  impressions  with  the 
-,oins  found  by  the  orphans,  she  perceived  that  many  of  them 
frere  of  the   reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh. 

People  who  are  fond  of  collecting  coins  set  a  great  value 
»n  these,  as  they  are  very  scarce.  Isabella  and  Caroline, 
knowing  something  of  the  character  of  Mr.  Hopkins,  the 
agent,  had  the  precaution  to  count  the  coins,  and  to  mark 
each  of  them  with  a  cross,  so  small  that  it  was  scarcely  visi 
ble  to  the  naked  eye,  though  it  was  easily  to  be  seen  through 
a  magnifying-glass.  They  also  begged  their  father,  who 
was  well  acquainted  with  Mr.  Harvey,  the  gentleman  to 
tvhom  Rossmore  castle  belonged,  to  write  to  him,  and  tell 
dim  how  well  these  orphans  had  behaved  about  the  treasure 
tfhich  they  had  found.  The  value  of  the  coins  was  esti- 
fliated  at  about  thirty  or  forty  guineas. 

A  few  days  after  the  fall  of  the  chimney  at  Rossmore 
castle,  as  Mary  and  her  sisters  were  sitting  at  their  work, 
there  came  hobbling  in  an  old  woman,  leaning  on  a  crab- 
stick,  that  seemed  to  have  been  newly  cut.  She  had  a 
broken  tobacco-pipe  in  her  mouth  ;  her  head  was  wrapped 
up  in  two  large  red  and  blue  handkerchiefs,  with  their  cor- 
ners hanging  far  down  over  the  back  of  her  neck,  no  shoes 
on  her  broad  feet,  nor  stockings  on  her  many-coloured  legs ; 
her  petticoat  was  jagged  at  the  bottom,  and  the  skirt  of  her 
gown  turned  up  over  her  shoulders,  to  serve  instead  of  her 
cloak,  which  she  had  sold  for  whiskey.  This  old  woman 
was  well  known  among  the  country  people  by  the  name  of 
Goody  Grope  :*  because  she  had,  for  many  years,  been  in 

*  Goody  is  not  a  word  used  in  Ireland  —  Collyogh  is  the  Irish 
appellation  of  an  old  woman  :  but  as  Oollyogh  might  sound  strangely 
to  English  ears,  we  have  translated  it  by  the  word  Goody. 


THE     ORPHANS.  385 

the  habit  of  groping  in  old  castles,  and  in  tike  moats,*  and 
at  the  bottom  of  a  round  tower  f  in  the  neighbourhood,  in 
search  of  treasure.  In  her  youth  she  had  heard  some  one 
talking,  in  a  whisper,  of  an  old  prophecy,  found  in  a  bog, 
which  said  that,  "  before  many  St.  Patrick's  days  should 
come  about,  there  would  be  found  a  treasure  underground, 
by  one  within  twenty  miles  round." 

This  prophecy  made  a  deep  impression  upon  her :  she 
alsc  dreamed  of  it  three  times ;  and  as  the  dream,  she 
thought,  was  a  sure  token  that  the  prophecy  was  to  come 
true,  she,  from  that  time  forward,  gave  up  her  spinning- 
wheel  and  her  knitting,  and  could  think  of  nothing  but 
hunting  for  the  treasure,  that  was  to  be  found  by  one  "  icithin 
twenty  miles  round."  —  Year  after  year,  St.  Patrick's  day 
came  about,  without  her  ever  finding  a  farthing  by  all  her 
groping ;  and  as  she  was  always  idle,  she  grew  poorer  and 
poorer ;  besides,  to  comfort  herself  for  her  disappointments, 
and  to  give  her  spirits  for  fresh  searches,  she  took  to  drink- 
ing :  she  sold  all  she  had  by  degrees ;  but  still  she  fancied 
that  the  lucky  day  would  come,  sooner  or  later,  that  would 
pay  for  all. 

Goody  Grope,  however,  reached  her  sixtieth  year,  without 
ever  seeing  this  lucky  day ;  and  now,  in  her  old  age,  she 
was  a  beggar,  without  a  house  to  shelter  her,  a  bed  to  lie 
on,  or  food  to  put  into  her  mouth,  but  what  she  begged  from 
the  charity  of  those  who  had  trusted  more  than  she  had  to 
industry,  and  less  to  luck. 

"  Ah  !  Mary,  honey  !  —  give  me  a  potatoe,  and  a  sup  of 
something,  for  the  love  o'  mercy ;  for  not  a  bit  have  I  had 
all  day,  except  half  a  glass  of  whiskey,  and  a  half-penny- 
worth of  tobacco  I" 

*  "What  are  in  Ireland  called  moats  are  in  England  called  Danish 
mounts,  or  barrows. 

f  Near  Kells,  in  Ireland,  there  is  a  round  tower,  which  was  in 
imminent  danger  of  being  pulled  down  by  an  old  woman's  rooting 
At  its  foundation,  in  hopes  of  finding  treasure. 

25 


386  THE     ORPHANS. 

Mary  immediately  set  before  her  some  milk,  and  picked 
a  good  potatoe  out  of  the  bowl  fcr  her;  she  was  sorry  to  see 
such  an  old  woman  in  such  a  wretched  condition.  Goody 
Grope  said  she  would  rather  have  spirits  of  some  kind  or 
other  than  milk ;  but  Mary  had  no  spirits  to  give  her ;  so 
she  sat  herself  down  close  to  the  fire,  and  after  she  had 
gighed  and  groaned,  and  smoked  for  some  time,  she  said  to 
Mary, — 

"  Well,  and  what  have  you  done  with  the  treasure  you 
had  the  luck  to  find?" 

Mary  told  her  that  she  had  carried  it  to  Mr.  Hopkins,  the 
agent. 

"That's  not  what  I  would  have  done  in  your  place, 
replied  the  old  woman.  "  When  good  luck  came  to  you, 
what  a  shame  to  turn  your  back  upon  it !  But  it  is  idle 
talking  of  what's  done  —  that's  past;  but  I'll  try  my  luck 
in  this  here  castle  before  next  St.  Patrick's  day  comes 
about:  I  was  told  it  was  more  than  twenty  miles  from  our 
bog,  or  I  would  have  been  here  long  ago:  —  but  better  late 
than  never." 

Mary  was  much  alarmed,  and  not  without  reason,  at  this 
speech:  for  she  knew  that  if  Goody  Grope  onc^set  to  work 
at  the  foundation  of  the  old  castle  of  Rossmoi'.,  she  would 
soon  bring  it  all  down.  It  was  in  vain  to  talk  to  Goody 
Grope  of  the  danger  of  burying  herself  under  the  ruins,  or 
of  the  improbability  of  her  meeting  with  another  pot  of 
gold  coins.  She  set  her  elbow  upon  her  knees,  and  stopping 
her  ears  with  her  hands,  bid  Mary  and  her  sisters  not  to 
waste  their  breath  advising  their  elders ;  for  that,  let  them 
say  what  they  would,  she  would  fall  to  work  the  next 
morning  ;  "barring*  you'll  make  it  worth  my  while  to  let 
it  alone." 

"  And  what  will  make  it  worth  ycur  while  to  let  it  alone  V* 
Baid  Mary,  who  saw  that  she  must  either  get  into  a  quarrel, 

*  Unless. 


THE     ORPHANS.  387 

or  ghe  up  her  habitation,  or  comply  with  the  conditions  of 
this  provoking  old  "woman. 

Half  a  crown,  Goody  Grope  said,  was  the  least  she  could 
be  content  to  take. 

Mary  paid  the  half-crown,  and  was  in  hopes  she  had  got 
rid  for  ever  of  her  tormentor :  but  she  was  mistaken  ;  for 
scarcely  was  the  week  at  an  end,  before  the  old  woman 
appeared  before  her  again,  and  repeated  her  threats  of  fall- 
ing to  work  the  next  morning,  unless  she  had  something 
given  her  to  buy  tobacco. 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  Goody  Grope 
came  on  the  same  errand ;  and  poor  Mary,  who  could  ill 
afford  to  supply  her  constantly  with  half-pence,  at  last 
exclaimed,  "I  am  sure  the  finding  of  this  treasure  has  not 
been  any  good-luck  to  us,  but  quite  the  contrary ;  and  I 
wish  we  never  had  found  it." 

Mary  did  not  yet  know  how  much  she  was  to  suffer  on 
account  of  this  unfortunate  pot  of  gold  coins.  Mr.  Hop- 
kins, the  agent,  imagined  that  no  one  knew  of  the  discovery 
of  this  treasure  but  himself  and  these  poor  children ;  so, 
not  being  as  honest  as  they  were,  he  resolved  to  keep  it  for 
his  own  use.  He  was  surprised,  some  weeks  afterward,  to 
receive  a  letter  from  his  employer,  Mr.  Harvey,  demanding 
from  him  the  coins  which  had  been  discovered  at  Rossmore 
castle.  Hopkins  had  sold  the  gold  coins,  and  somo  of  the 
others  ;  but  he  flattered  himself  that  the  children,  and  the 
young  ladies  to  whom  he  now  found  they  had  been  shown, 
could  not  tell  whether  what  they  had  seen  were  gold  or  not ; 
and  he  was  not  in  the  least  apprehensive  that  those  of  Henry 
the  Seventh's  reign  would  be  reclaimed  from  him,  as  he 
thought  they  had  escaped  attention.  So  he  sent  over  the 
silver  coins  and  others  of  little  value,  and  apologised  for  his 
not  having  mentioned  them  before,  by  saying  that  he  con- 
sidered them  as  mere  rubbish. 

Mr.  Harvey,  in  reply,  observed,  that  he  could  not  consi- 
der as  rubbish  the  gold  coins  which  were  among  t*  fcra  when 


388  THE     ORPHANS. 

they  were  discovered  ;  and  he  inquired  why  these  gold  coins 
and  those  of  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh  were  not  now 
sent  to  him. 

Mr.  Hopkins  denied  that  he  had  ever  received  any  such  : 
but  he  was  thunderstruck  when  Mr.  Harvey,  in  reply  to 
this  falsehood,  sent  him  a  list  of  the  coins  which  the 
orphans  had  deposited  with  him,  and  exact  drawings  of 
those  that  were  missing.  He  informed  him  that  this  list 
and  these  drawings  came  from  two  ladies  who  had  seen  the 
coins  in  question. 

Mr.  Hopkins  thought  that  he  had  no  means  of  escape  but 
by  boldly  persisting  in  falsehood.  He  replied,  that  it  was 
very  likely  such  coins  had  been  found  at  Rossmore  castle, 
and  that  the  ladies  alluded  to  had  probably  seen  them :  but 
he  positively  declared  that  they  never  came  to  his  hands ; 
that  he  had  restored  all  that  were  deposited  with  him  ;  and 
that,  as  to  the  others,  he  supposed  they  must  have  been 
taken  out  of  the  pot  by  the  children,  or  by  Edmund  or  Mary 
in  their  way  from  the  ladies'  house  to  his. 

The  orphans  were  shocked  and  astonished  when  they 
heard  from  Isabella  and  Caroline  the  charge  that  was  made 
against  them:  they  looked  at  one  another  in  silence  for  some 
moments;  then  Peggy  exclaimed,  "  Sure,  Mr.  Hopkins  has 
forgotten  himself  strangely !  Does  not  he  remember  Ed- 
mund's counting  the  things  to  him  upon  the  great  table  in 
his  hall,  and  we  all  standing  by?  —  I  remember  it  as  well 
as  if  it  was  this  instant." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  cried  Anne.  "  And  do  n't  you  recollect, 
Mary,  your  picking  out  the  gold  ones,  and  telling  Mr.  Hop- 
kins that  they  were  gold  ?  and  he  said  you  knew  nothing 
of  the  matter ;  and  I  was  going  to  tell  him  that  Miss  Isa- 
bella had  tried  them,  and  knew  that  they  were  gold  ;  but 
just  then  there  came  in  some  tenants  to  pay  their  rent,  and 
he  pushed  us  out,  and  twitched  from  my  hand  the  piece  of 
gold  which  I  had  taken  up  to  show  him  the  bright  spot 
which  Miss  Isabella  had  cleaned  by  the  stuff  s'.:  e  had  poured 


THE     ORPHANS.  389 

u!i  it.  *  believe  he  was  afraid  I  should  steal  it,  he  twitched 
It  from  my  hand  in  such  a  hurry.  Do,  Edmund,  do,  Mary, 
let  us  go  to  him,  and  put  him  in  mind  of  all  this." 

u  I  '11  go  to  him  no  more,"  said  Edmund,  sturdily.  "  He 
is  a  bad  man  —  I'll  never  go  to  him  again.  Mary,  don'l 
be  cast  down  —  we  have  no  need  to  be  cast  down  —  we  are 
honest." 

"  True,"  said  Mary ;  "  but  is  not  it  a  hard  case,  that  we, 
who  have  lived,  as  my  mother  did  all  her  life  before  us,  in 
peace  and  honesty  with  all  the  world,  should  now  have  our 
good  name  taken  from  us,  when — "  Mary's  voice  faltered 
and  stopped. 

"It  can't  be  taken  from  us,"  cried  Edmund,  "poor 
orphans  though  we  are,  and  he  a  rich  gentleman,  as  he  calls 
himself.  Let  him  say  and  do  what  he  will,  he  can't  hurt 
our  good  name." 

Edmund  was  mistaken,  alas  !  and  Mary  had  but  too  much 
reason  for  her  fears.  The  affair  was  a  great  deal  talked  of, 
and  the  agent  spared  no  pains  to  have  the  story  told  his 
own  way.  The  orphans,  conscious  of  their  own  innocence, 
took  no  pains  about  the  matter ;  and  the  consequence  was, 
that  all  who  knew  them  well  had  no  doubt  of  their  honesty  ; 
but  many  who  knew  nothing  of  them  concluded  that  the 
agent  must  be  in  the  right,  and  the  children  in  the  wrong. 
The  buzz  of  scandal  went  on  for  some  time  without  reach- 
ing their  ears,  because  they  lived  very  retiredly ;  but  one 
day,  when  Mary  went  to  sell  some  stockings  of  Peggy's 
knitting  at  the  neighbouring  fair,  the  man  to  whom  she  sold 
them  bid  her  write  her  name  on  the  back  of  a  note,  and 
exclaimed,  on  seeing  it,  "Ho!  ho!  mistress!  —  I'd  not 
have  had  any  dealings  with  you,  had  I  known  your  name 
sooner.  "Where 's  the  gold  that  you  found  at  Rossmore 
castle  ?" 

It  was  in  vain  that  Mary  related  the  fact ;  she  saw  that 
she  gained  no  belief,  as  her  character  was  not  known  to  this 
man,  or  to  any  of  those  who  were  present.     She  left  the 


390  THE     ORPHANS. 

fair  h$  soon  as  she  could ;  and  though  she  struggled  against 
it,  she  felt  very  melancholy.  Still  she  exerted  herself  every 
day  at  her  little  manufacture ;  and  she  endeavoured  to  con- 
sole herself  by  reflecting  that  she  had  two  friends  left  who 
would  not  give  up  her  character,  and  who  continued  stea- 
dily to  protect  her  and  her  sisters. 

Isabella  and  Caroline  everywhere  asserted  their  belief  in 
the  integrity  of  the  orphans ;  but  to  prove  it  was  in  this 
instance  out  of  their  power.  Mr.  Hopkins  the  agent  and 
his  friends  constantly  repeated  that  the  gold  coins  were 
taken  away  in  coming  from  their  house  to  his ;  and  these 
ladies  were  blamed  by  many  people  for  continuing  to  coun- 
tenance those  that  were,  with  great  reason,  suspected  to  be 
thieves.  The  orphans  were  in  a  worse  condition  than  ever 
when  the  winter  came  on,  and  their  benefactresses  left  the 
country  to  spend  some  months  in  Dublin.  The  old  castle, 
it  was  true,  was  likely  to  last  through  the  winter,  as  the 
mason  said  ;  but  though  the  want  of  a  comfortable  house  to 
live  in  was  a  little  while  ago  the  uppermost  thing  in  Mary's 
thoughts,  now  it  was  not  so. 

One  night,  as  Mary  was  going  to  bed,  she  heard  some  one 
knocking  hard  at  the  door.  "  Mary !  are  you  up  ?  let  us 
in  I",  cried  a  voice,  which  she  knew  to  be  that  of  Betsy 
Green,  the  postmaster's  daughter,  who  lived  in  a  village 
near  them. 

She  let  Betsy  in,  and  asked  what  she  could  want  at  such 
a  time  of  night. 

"  Give  me  sixpence,  and  I  '11  tell  you,"  said  Betsy ;  "  but 
waken  Anne  and  Peggy.  Here's  a  letter  just  come  by  the 
post  for  you ;  and  I  stepped  over  to  you  with  it,  because  I 
guessed  you  'd  be  glad  to  have  it,  seeing  it  is  your  brother's 
handwriting." 

Peggy  and  Anne  were  soon  roused,  when  they  heard  that 
there  was  a  letter  from  Edmund.  It  was  by  one  of  his 
rush-candles  that  Mary  read  it ;  and  the  letter  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 


THE     ORPHANS.  391 

"Dear  Mary,  Nancy,  and  little  Peg, 
"Joy!  joy  !  —  I  always  said  the  truth  would  come  out  at 
last,  and  that  he  could  not  take  our  good  name  from  us.  Bui 
I  will  not  tell  you  how  it  all  came  about  till  we  meet,  which 
will  be  next  week,  as  we  (I  mean  master  and  mistress  and 
the  young  ladies,  —  bless  them  !  —  and  Mr.  Gilbert  and  I) 
are  coming  down  to  the  vicarage  to  keep  the  Christmas  — 
and  a  happy  Christmas  'tis  likely  to  be  for  honest  folks ;  as 
for  they  that  are  not  honest,  it  is  not  for  them  to  expect  to 
be  happy,  at  Christmas  or  at  any  other  time.  You  shall 
know  all  when  we  meet ;  so,  till  then  fare  ye  well,  dear 
Mary,  Nancy,  and  little  Peg ! 

"Your  joyful  and  affectionate  brother, 

"  Edmund." 

To  comprehend  why  Edmund  is  joyful,  our  readers  must 
be  informed  of  certain  things  which  happened  after  Isabella 
and  Caroline  went  to  Dublin.  One  morning  they  went  with 
their  father  and  mother  to  see  the  magnificent  library  of  a 
nobleman,  who  took  generous  and  polite  pleasure  in  thus 
sharing  the  advantages  of  his  wealth  and  station  with  all 
who  had  any  pretensions  to  science  or  literature.  Knowing 
that  the  gentleman  who  was  now  come  to  see  his  library 
was  skilled  in  antiquities,  the  nobleman  opened  a  drawer 
of  medals,  to  ask  his  opinion  concerning  the  age  of  some 
coins  which  he  had  lately  purchased  at  a  high  price.  They 
were  the  very  same  which  the  orphans  >  ad  found  at  floss- 
more  castle.  Isabella  and  Caroline  knew  them  again 
instantly ;  and  as  the  cross  which  Isabella  had  made  on 
each  of  them  was  still  visible  through  a  magnifying-glass. 
there  could  be  no  possibility  of  doubt. 

The  nobleman,  who  was  much  interested  both  by  the 
story  of  these  orphans,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  was 
told  to  him,  sent  immediately  for  the  person  from  whom  he 
had  purchased  the  coins.  He  was  a  Jew  broker.  At  first 
he  refused  to  teil  from  whom  he  got  them,  because  he  had 


6\)Z  THE     OUPHANS. 

bought  them,  he  said,  under  a  promise  of  secrecy.  Being 
further  pressed,  he  acknowledged  that  it  was  made  a  con- 
dition in  his  bargain  that  he  should  not  sell  them  to  any 
one  in  Ireland  ;  but  that  he  had  been  tempted  by  the  high 
price  Lord had  offered. 

At  last,  when  the  Jew  was  informed  that  the  coins  were 
stolen,  and  that  he  would  be  proceeded  against  as  a  receiver 
of  stolen  goods,  if  he  did  not  confess  the  whole  truth,  he 
declared  that  he  had  purchased  them  from  a  gentleman 
whom  he  had  never  seen  before  or  since  ;  but  he  added  that 
he  could  swear  to  his  person  if  he  saw  him  again.  Now 
Mr.  Hopkins,  the  agent,  was  at  this  time  in  Dublin  ;  and 
Caroline's  father  posted  the  Jew  the  next  day  in  the  back- 
parlour  of  a  banker's  house,  with  whom  Mr.  Hopkins  had 
on  this  day  appointed  to  settle  some  accounts.  Mr.  Hop- 
kins came  —  the  Jew  knew  him  —  swore  that  he  was  the 
man  who  had  sold  the  coins  to  him  ;  and  thus  the  guilt  of 
the  agent,  and  the  innocence  of  the  orphans,  were  com- 
pletely proved. 

A  full  account  of  all  that  happened  was  sent  to  England 
to  Mr.  Harvey  their  landlord ;  and,  a  few  posts  afterward, 
there  came  a  letter  from  him,  containing  a  dismissal  of  the 
dishonest  agent,  and  a  reward  for  the  honest  and  industri- 
ous orphans.  Mr.  Harvey  desired  that  Mary  and  her  sis- 
ters might  have  the  slated  house  rent  free,  from  this  time 
forward,  under  the  care  of  the  ladies  Isabella  and  Caroline, 
as  long  as  Mary  or  her  sisters  should  carry  on  in  it  any 
useful  business.  This  was  the  joyful  news  which  Edmund 
had  to  tell  his  sisters. 

All  the  neighbours  shared  in  their  joy ;  and  the  day  of 
their  removal  from  the  ruins  of  Kossmore  castle  to  their 
new  house  was  the  happiest  of  the  Christmas  holydays. 
They  were  not  envied  for  their  prosperity,  because  every- 
body saw  that  it  was  the  reward  of  their  good  conduct ; 
everybody  except  Goody  Grope :  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
wrung  her  hands  with  violent  expressions  of  sorrow,  "  Bad 


THE     ORPHANS.  393 

luck  to  me  !  bad  luck  to  me  !  Why  did  n't  I  go  socner  to 
that  there  castle  !  It  is  all  luck  —  all  luck,  in  this  world  ; 
but  I  never  had  no  luck  !  Think  of  the  luck  of  these  chil- 
der,  that  have  found  a  pot  of  gold,  and  such  great  grand 
friends,  and  a  slated  house,  and  all;  and  here  am  1,  with 
scarce  a  rag  to  cover  me,  and  not  a  potatoe  to  put  into  my 
mouth!  —  I,  that  have  been  looking  under-ground  all  my 
iays  for  treasure,  not  to  have  a  half-penny  at  the  last  to  buy 
me  tobacco  I" 

"  That  is  the  very  reason  that  you  have  not  a  half- 
penny," said  Betsy :  "  here  Mary  has  been  working  hard, 
and  so  have  her  two  little  sisters  and  her  brother,  for  these 
five  years  past;  and  they  have  made  money  for  themselves 
by  their  own  industry  —  and  friends  too  —  not  by  luck,  but 
by—" 

"  Phoo !  phoo  !"  interrupted  Goody  Grope  ;  "  do  n't  be 
prating ;  do  n't  I  know,  as  well  as  you  do,  that  they  found 
a  pot  of  gold,  by  good  luck?  and  is  not  that  the  cause  why 
they  are  going  to  live  in  the  slated  house  now  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  postmaster's  daughter ;  "  this  house  is 
given  to  them  as  a  reward  —  that  was  the  word  in  the  letter, 
for  I  saw  it ;  Edmund  showed  it  to  me,  and  will  show  it  to 
any  one  that  wants  to  see.  This  house  was  given  to  the»" 
*as  c  reward  for  their  honesty.7 " 


WASTE  NOT;  WANT   NOT; 

OR, 

TWO  STRINGS  TO  YOUR  BOW. 


Mr.  Gresham,  a  Bristol  merchant,  who  had,  by  honour- 
able industry  and  economy,  accumulated  a  considerable  for- 
tune, retired  from  business  to  a  new  house  which  he  had 
built  upon  the  downs,  near  Clifton.  Mr.  Gresham,  however, 
did  not  imagine  that  a  new  house  alone  could  make  him 
happy :  he  did  not  propose  to  live  in  idleness  and  extrava- 
gance, for  such  a  life  would  have  been  equally  incompatible 
with  his  habits  and  his  principles.  He  was  fond  of  chil- 
dren, and  as  he  had  no  sons,  he  determined  to  adopt  one  of 
his  relations.  He  had  two  nephews,  and  he  invited  both 
of  them  to  his  house,  that  he  might  have  an  opportunity  of 
judging  of  their  dispositions,  and  of  the  habits  which  they 
had  acquired. 

Hal  and  Benjamin,  Mr.  Gresham's  nephews,  were  about 
ten  years  old  ;  they  had  been  educated  very  differently. 
Hal  was  the  son  uf  the  elder  branch  of  the  family ;  his 
father  was  a  gentleman,  who  spent  rather  more  than  he 
could  afford ;  and  Hal,  from  the  example  of  the  servants  in 
his  father's  family,  with  whom  he  had  passed  the  first  years 
of  his  childhood,  learned  to  waste  more  of  everything  than 
he  used.  He  had  been  told,  that  "  gentlemen  should  be 
above  being  careful  and  saving ;"  and  he  had  unfortunately 

(394) 


WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT.  395 

lmbibid  a  notion,  that  extravagance  is  the  sign  of  a  gene- 
rous, and  economy  of  an  avaricious,  disposition. 

Benjamin,*  on  the  contrary,  had  been  taught  habits  of 
care  and  foresight ;  his  father  had  but  a  very  small  fortune, 
and  was  anxious  that  his  son  should  early  learn  that  eco- 
nomy ensures  independence,  and  sometimes  puts  it  in  the 
power  of  those  who  are  not  very  rich  to  be  very  generous. 

The  morning  after  these  two  boys  arrived  at  their  uncle's, 
they  were  eager  to  see  all  the  rooms  in  the  house.  Mr.  Gre- 
sham accompanied  them,  and  attended  to  their  remarks  and 
exclamations. 

"  0 !  what  an  excellent  motto  I"  exclaimed  Ben,  when  he 
read  the  following  words,  which  were  written  in  large  cha- 
racters over  the  chimney-piece,  in  his  uncle's  spacious 
kitchen : — 

WASTE    NOT,  WANT    NOT. 

"  "Waste  not,  want  not  l"  repeated  his  cousin  Hal,  in 
rather  a  contemptuous  tone  ;  "  I  think  it  looks  stingy  to  ser- 
vants ;  and  no  gentleman's  servants,  cooks  especially,  would 
like  to  have  such  a  mean  motto  always  staring  them  in  the 
face." 

Ben,  who  was  not  so  conversant  as  his  cousin  in  the  ways 
of  cooks  and  gentlemen's  servants,  made  no  reply  to  these 
observations. 

Mr.  Gresham  was  called  away  while  his  nephews  were 
looking  at  the  other  rooms  in  the  house.  Some  time  after- 
ward, he  heard  their  voices  in  the  hall. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  "  what  are  you  doing  there  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  said  Hal ;  "  you  were  called  away  from 
us,  and  we  did  not  know  which  way  to  go." 

"  And  have  you  nothing  to  do  ?"  said  Mr.  Gresham. 

"  No,  sir,  nothing,"  answered  Hal  in  a  careless  tone,  like 
one  who  was  wel^  content  with  the  state  of  habitual  idle- 


Benjamin,  so  called  from  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin. 


396  WASTE   NOT,    WANT     NOT. 

"  No,  sir,  nothing !"  replied  Ben,  in  a  voice  of  lamentation. 

"  Come,"  said  Mr.  (jresham,  "  if  you  have  nothing  to  do, 
lads,  will  you  unpack  these  two  parcels  for  me  ?" 

The  two  parcels  were  exactly  alike,  both  of  them  well  tied 
up  with  good  whip-cord.  Ben  took  his  parcel  to  a  table, 
and,  after  breaking  off  the  sealing-wax,  began  carefully  to 
examine  the  knot,  and  then  to  untie  it.  Hal  stood  still, 
exactly  in  the  spot  where  the  parcel  was  put  into  his  hands, 
and  tried  first  at  one  corner,  and  then  at  another,  to  pull 
the  string  off  by  force:  "I  wish  these  people  wouldn't  tie 
up  their  parcels  so  tight,  as  if  they  were  never  to  be 
undone,"  cried  he,  as  he  tugged  at  the  cord ;  and  he  pulled 
the  knot  closer,  instead  of  loosening  it. 

"Ben  !  why,  how  did  ye  get  yours  undone,  man? — what's 
in  your  parcel  ?  —  I  wonder  what  is  in  mine !  I  wish  I 
could  get  this  string  off —  I  must  cut  it." 

"  0,  no,"  said  Ben,  who  had  now  undone  the  last  knot  of 
his  parcel,  and  who  drew  out  the  length  of  string  with 
exultation,  "  do  n't  cut  it,  Hal  —  look  what  a  nice  cord  this 
is,  and  yours  is  the  same ;  it 's  a  pity  to  cut  it :  '  Waste  noty 
want  not  V  you  know." 

"  Pooh  !"  said  Hal,  "  what  signifies  a  bit  of  packthread '" 

"  It  is  whip-cord." 

•'  Well,  whip-cord  !  what  signifies  a  bit  of  whip-cord !  you 
can  get  a  bit  of  whip-cord  twice  as  long  as  that  for  two- 
pence ;  and  who  cares  for  twopence !  Not  I,  for  one !  so, 
here  it  goes,"  cried  Hal,  drawing  out  his  knife ;  and  he  cut 
the  cord,  precipitately,  in  sundry  places. 

"Lads!  have  you  undone  the  parcels  for  me?"  said  Mr. 
Gresham,  opening  the  parlour-door  as  he  spoke. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  cried  Hal ;  and  he  dragged  off  his  half-cut, 
half-entangled  string ;  "  here  's  the  parcel." 

"  And  here 's  my  parcel,  uncle  ;  and  here 's  the  string," 
Baid  Ben. 

"  You  may  keep  the  string  for  your  pains,"  said  Mr  Ore- 
eham. 


WASTE     NOT,    WANT     NOT. 


397 


"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Ben  ;  "  what  an  excellent  -whip- 
cord it  is !" 

"And  you,  Hal,"  continued  Mr.  Gresham,  "ysu  may 
keep  your  string  too,  if  it  will  be  of  any  use  to  you  " 

"  It  will  be  of  no  use  to  me,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Hal. 

"  No,  I  am  afraid  not,  if  this  be  it,"  said  his  uncle,  taking 
up  the  jagged,  knotted  remains  of  Hal's  cord. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Mr.  Gresham  gave  to  each  of  hie 
nephews  a  new  top. 

"  But  how 's  this  ?"  said  Hal ;  "  these  tops  have  no 
strings  ;  what  shall  we  do  for  strings  ?" 

"  I  have  a  string  that  will  do  very  well  for  mine,"  said 
Ben ;  and  he  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  the  fine  long  smooth 
string  which  had  tied  up  the  parcel.  With  this  he  soon  set 
up  his  top,  which  spun  admirably  well. 

"  0,  how  I  wish  that  I  had  but  a  string !"  said  Hal : 
"  what  shall  I  do  for  a  string  ?  I  '11  tell  you  what ;  I  can 
use  the  string  that  goes  round  my  hat." 

"But  then,"  said  Ben,  "what  will  you  do  for  a  hat- 
band?" 

"I'll  manage  to  do  without  one,"  said  Hal:  and  he 
took  the  string  off  his  hat  for  his  top.  It  soon  was  worn 
through ;  and  he  split  his  top  by  driving  the  peg  too  tightly 
into  it.  His  cousin  Ben  let  him  set  up  his  the  next  day  ;  but 
Hal  was  not  more  fortunate  or  more  careful  when  he  med- 
dled with  other  people's  things  than  when  he  managed  his 
own.  He  had  scarcely  played  half  an  hour  before  he  split 
it,  by  driving  in  the  peg  too  violently. 

Ben  bore  this  misfortune  with  good-humour.  "  Come," 
said  he,  "  it  can't  be  helped ;  but  give  me  the  string,  because 
that  may  still  be  of  use  for  something  else." 

It  happened,  some  time  time  afterward,  that  a  lady,  who 
had  been  intimately  acquainted  with  Hal's  mother  at  Bath, 
that  is  to  say,  who  had  frequently  met  her  at  the  card-table 
during  the  winter,  now  arrived  at  Clifton.  She  was 
informed  by  his  mother  that  Hal  was  at  Mr.  Gresham's ; 


398  WASTE     NO'I,    WANT     NOT. 

and  her  sons,  vrho  were  friends  of  his,  came  to  see  him,  and 
fnvited  mm  to  spend  the  next  day  with  them. 

Hal  joyfully  accepted  the  invitation.  He  was  always  glad 
to  go  out  to  dine,  because  it  gave  him  something  to  do, 
something  to  think  of,  or,  at  least,  something  to  say. 
besides  this,  he  had  been  educated  to  think  it  was  a  fine 
thing  to  visit  fine  people ;  and  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes 
^for  that  Avas  the  name  of  his  mother's  acquaintance)  was 
a  very  fine  lady  ;  and  her  two  sons  intended  to  be  very  great 
gentlemen. 

He  was  in  a  prodigious  hurry  when  these  young  gentle- 
men knocked  at  his  uncle's  door  the  next  day:  but  just  as 
he  got  to  the  hall-door,  little  Patty  called  to  him  from  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  and  told  him  that  he  had  dropped  his 
pocket-handkerchief. 

"  Pick  it  up,  then,  and  bring  it  to  me,  quick,  can't  you, 
child?"  cried  Hal,  "for  Lady  Di.'s  sons  are  waiting  for 
me." 

Little  Patty  did  not  know  anything  about  Lady  Di.'s  sons ; 
but  as  she  was  very  good-natured,  and  saw  that  her  cousin 
Hal  was,  for  some  reason  or  other,  in  a  desperate  hurry,  she 
ran  down-stairs  as  fast  as  she  possibly  could  towards  the 
landing-place,  where  the  handkerchief  lay: — but,  alas! 
before  she  reached  the  handkerchief,  she  fell,  rolling  down 
a  whole  flight  of  stairs ;  and  when  her  fall  was  at  last 
stopped  by  the  landing-place,  she  did  not  cry,  but  she 
writhed,  as  if  she  was  in  great  pain. 

"  Where  are  you  hurt,  my  love  ?"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  who 
came  instantly,  on  hearing  the  noise  of  some  one  falling 
down-stairs  —  "where  are  you  hurt,  my  dear?" 

"  Here,  papa,"  said  the  little  girl,  touching  her  ankle, 
which  she  had  decently  covered  with  her  gown ;  "  I  believe 
I  am  hurt  here,  but  not  much,"  added  she,  trying  to  rise ; 
"  only  it  hurts  me  when  I  move." 

**  I  '11  carry  you,  do  n't  move  then,"  said  he  '  father ;  and 
he  took  her  up  in  his  arms. 


WASTE     NOT,    WANT     NOT.  399 

"My  shoe  —  I've  lost  one  of  my  shces,"  said  she.  Eon 
looked  for  it  upon  the  stairs,  and  found  it  sticking  in  a  loop 
of  whip-cord,  which  was  entangled  round  one  of  the  balus- 
ters. When  this  cord  was  drawn  forth,  it  appeared  that  it 
was  the  very  same  jagged,  entangled  piece  which  Hal  had 
pulled  off  his  parcel.  He  had  diverted  himself  with  run- 
ning up  and  down-stairs,  whipping  the  balusters  with  it,  as 
he  thought  he  could  convert  it  to  no  better  use ;  and,  with 
his  usual  carelessness,  he  left  it  hanging  just  where  he  hap- 
pened to  throw  it  when  the  dinner-bell  rang.  Poor  little 
Patty's  ankle  was  terribly  sprained,  and  Hal  reproached 
himself  for  his  folly,  and  would  have  reproached  himself 
longer,  perhaps,  if  Lady  Di.  Sweepstakes'  sons  had  not  hur- 
ried him  away. 

In  the  evening,  Patty  could  not  run  about  as  she  used  to 
do ;  but  she  sat  upon  the  sofa,  and  she  said  that,  "  she  did 
not  feel  the  pain  of  her  ankle  so  much  while  Ben  was  so 
good  as  to  play  at  jack-straws  with  her." 

"That's  right,  Ben;  never  be  ashamed  of  being  good- 
natured  to  those  who  are  younger  and  weaker  than  your- 
self," said  his  uncle,  smiling  at  seeing  him  produce  his 
whip-cord,  to  indulge  his  little  cousin  with  a  game  at  her 
favourite  cat's-cradle.  "  I  shall  not  think  you  one  bit  less 
manly  because  I  see  you  playing  at  cat's-cradle  with  a  little 
child  of  six  years  old." 

Hal,  however,  was  not  precisely  of  his  uncle's  opinion; 
for  when  he  returned  in  the  evening  and  saw  Ben  playing 
with  his  little  cousin,  he  could  not  help  smiling  contemptu- 
ously, and  asked  if  he  had  been  playing  at  cat's-cradle  all 
night.  In  a  heedless  manner  he  made  some  inquiries  after 
Patty's  sprained  ankle,  and  then  he  ran  on  to  tell  all  the 
news  he  had  heard  at  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes'  —  news 
which  he  thought  would  make  him  appear  a  person  of  vast 
importance. 

"Do  you  know,  uncle  —  do  y.>u  know,  Ben,"  said  he, 
**  there 's  to  be  the  most  famous  doings  that  ever  were  heird 


400  WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT. 

of  upon  the  Downs  here  the  first  day  of  nest  month,  which 
will  be  in  a  fortnight,  thank  my  stars  !  I  wish  the  fortnight 
was  over ;  I  shall  think  of  nothing  else,  I  know,  till  that 
happy  day  comes  ■!" 

Mr.  Gresham  inquired  why  the  first  of  September  was  feo 
be  so  much  happier  than  any  other  day  in  the  year. 

"  Why,"  replied  Hal,  "  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes,  you 
know,  is  a  famous  rider,  and  archer,  and  all  that — " 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  soberly  —  "but  what 
then?" 

"  Dear  uncle  !"  cried  Hal, — "  but  you  shall  hear.  There's 
to  be  a  race  upon  the  Downs  the  first  of  September,  and 
after  the  race  there 's  to  be  an  archery  meeting  for  the 
ladies,  and  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes  is  to  be  one  of  them. 
And  after  the  ladies  have  done  shooting  —  now,  Ben,  comes 
the  best  part  of  it !  —  we  boys  are  to  have  our  turn,  and 
Lady  Di.  is  to  give  a  prize  to  the  best  marksman  among  us 
of  a  very  handsome  bow  and  arrow!  Do  you  know  I've 
been  practising  already,  and  I  '11  show  you  to-morrow,  as 
soon  as  it  comes  home,  the  famous  bow  and  arrow  that 
Lady  Diana  has  given  me :  but,  perhaps,"  added  he,  with 
a  scornful  laugh,  "  you  like  a  cat's-cradle  better  than  a  bow 
and  arrow." 

Ben  made  no  reply  to  this  taunt  at  the  moment ;  but  the 
next  day,  when  Hal's  new  bow  and  arrow  came  home,  he 
convinced  him  that  he  knew  how  to  use  it  very  well. 

"Ben,"  said  his  uncle,  "you  seem  to  be  a  good  marks- 
man, though  you  have  not  boasted  of  yourself.  I  '11  give 
you  a  bow  and  arrow ;  and,  perhaps,  if  you  practise,  you 
may  make  yourself  an  archer  before  the  first  of  September; 
and,  in  the  mean  time,  you  will  not  wish  the  fortnight  to 
be  over,  for  you  will  have  something  to  do." 

"  0,  sir,"  interrupted  Hal,  "  but  if  you  mean  that  Ben 
should  put  in  for  the  prize,  he  must  have  a  uniform." 

"Why  must  he?"  said  Mr.  Gresham. 

"Why,  sir,  because  everybody  has — I  mean  everybody 


WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT.  401 

that 's  anybody ;  and  Lady  Diana  was  talking  about  the 
uniform  all  dinner-time,  and  it's  settled  all  about  it  except 
the  buttons :  the  young  Sweepstakes  are  to  get  theirs  made 
first,  for  patterns  ;  they  are  to  be  white,  faced  with  green  ; 
and  they  '11  look  very  handsome,  I  'rn  sure ;  and  I  shall 
write  to  mamma  to-night,  as  Lady  Diana  bid  me,  about 
mine ;  and  I  shall  tell  her  to  be  sure  to  answer  my  letter, 
without  fail,  by  return  of  the  post;  and  then,  if  mamma 
makes  no  objection  —  which  I  know  she  won't,  because  sho 
never  thinks  much  about  expense,  and  all  that —  then  I 
shall  bespeak  my  uniform,  and  get  it  made  by  the  same 
tailor  that  makes  for  Lady  Diana  and  the  young  Sweep- 
stakes." 

"Mercy  upon  us!"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  who  was  almost 
stunned  by  the  rapid  vociferation  with  which  this  long 
speech  about  a  uniform  was  pronounced. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  understand  these  things,"  added  he, 
with  an  air  of  simplicity,  "  but  we  will  inquire,  Ben,  into 
the  necessity  of  the  case  ;  and  if  it  is  necessary  —  or  if  you 
think  it  necessary,  that  you  shall  have  a  uniform  —  why  — 
I  '11  give  you  one." 

"  You,  uncle! — Will  you,  indeed?"  exclaimed  Hal,  with 
amazement  painted  in  his  countenance.  "Well,  that's  the 
last  thing  in  the  world  I  should  have  expected !  You  are 
not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  I  should  have  thought  would 
care  about  a  uniform  ;  and  now  I  should  have  supposed 
you  'd  have  thought  it  extravagant  to  have  a  coat  on  pur- 
pose only  for  one  day ;  and  I  'm  sure  Lady  Diana  Sweep- 
stakes thought  as  I  do :  for  when  I  told  her  that  motto  over 
your  kitchen  chimney,  waste  not,  want  not,  she  laughed, 
and  said,  that  I  had  better  not  talk  to  you  about  uniforms, 
and  that  my  mother  was  the  proper  person  to  write  to  about 
my  uniform  ;  but  I'll  tell  Lady  Diana,  uncle,  how  good  you 
are,  and  how  much  she  was  mistaken." 

"  Take  care  how  you  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Gresham  ;  "  for 
perhaps  the  lady  was  not  mistaken." 
26 


402  WASTE     NOT,    WANT     NOT. 

"Nay,  did  not  you  say,  just  now,  you  would  give  poor 
Ben  a  uniform  ?" 

"  I  said  I  would,  if  he  thought  it  necessary  to  have  one." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  answer  for  it  he  '11  think  it  necessary,"  said 
Elal,  laughing,  "  because  it  is  necessary." 

"Allow  him,  at  least,  to  judge  for  himself,"  said  Mr. 
Gresham. 

"  My  dear  uncle,  but  I  assure  you,"  said  Hal,  earnestly, 
"there's  no  judging  about  the  matter,  because  really,  upon 
my  word,  Lady  Diana  said  distinctly  that  her  sons  were  to 
have  uniforms,  white  faced  with  green,  and  a  green  and 
white  cockade  in  their  hats." 

"  Maybe  so,"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  still  with  the  same  look 
of  calm  simplicity :  "  put  on  your  hats,  boys,  and  come  with 
me.  I  know  a  gentleman  whose  sons  are  to  be  at  this  arch- 
ery meeting ;  and  we  will  inquire  into  all  the  particulars 
from  him.  Then,  after  we  have  seen  him  (it  is  not  eleven 
o'clock  yet),  we  shall  have  time  enough  to  walk  on  to  Bris- 
tol, and  choose  the  cloth  for  Ben's  uniform,  if  it  is  neces- 
Rary." 

"I  cannot  tell  what  to  make  of  all  he  says,"  whispered 
Hal,  as  he  reached  down  his  hat ;  "  do  you  think,  Ben,  he 
means  to  give  you  this  uniform  or  not?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Ben,  "  that  he  means  to  give  me  one,  if 
it  is  necessary ;  or,  as  he  said,  if  I  think  it  is  necessary." 

"  And  that,  to  be  sure,  you  will ;  won't  you  ?  or  else 
you'll  be  a  great  fool,  I  know,  after  all  I've  told  you.  How 
can  any  one  in  the  world  know  so  much  about  the  matter 
as  I,  who  have  dined  with  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes  but 
yesterday,  and  heard  all  about  it,  from  beginning  to  end  ? 
and  as  for  this  gentleman  that  we  are  going  to,  I'm  sure, 
if  he  knows  anything  about  the  matter,  he  '11  say  exactly 
the  same  as  I  do." 

**  We  shall  hear,"  said  Ben,  with  a  degree  of  composure 
which  Hal  could  by  no  means  comprehend,  when  a  uniform 
was  in  question. 


WASTE     NOT,    WANT    NOT.  403 

The  gentleman  upon  whom  Mr.  Gresham  called  had  three 
eons,  who  were  all  to  be  at  this  archery  meeting ;  and  they 
unanimously  assured  him,  in  the  presence  of  Hal  and  Ben, 
that  they  had  never  thought  of  buying  uniforms  for  this 
grand  occasion ;  and  that,  among  the  number  of  their 
acquaintance,  they  knew  of  but  three  boys  whose  friends 
intended  to  be  at  such  an  unnecessary  expense.  Hal  stood 
amazed — "Such  are  the  varieties  of  opinion  upon  all  the 
grand  affairs  of  life,"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  looking  at  his 
nephews  :  "  what  among  one  set  of  people  you  hear  asserted 
to  be  absolutely  necessary,  you  will  hear,  from  another  set 
of  people,  is  quite  unnecessary.  All  that  can  be  done,  my 
dear  boys,  in  these  difficult  cases,  is  to  judge  for  yourselves 
which  opinions,  and  which  people,  are  the  most  reason- 
able." 

Hal,  who  had  been  more  accustomed  to  think  of  what 
was  fashionable  than  of  what  was  reasonable,  without  at 
all  considering  the.  good  sense  of  what  his  uncle  said  to 
him,  replied,  with  childish  petulance,  "Indeed,  sir,  I  don't 
know  what  other  people  think ;  I  only  know  what  Lady 
Diana  Sweepstakes  said." 

The  name  of  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes,  Hal  thought,  must 
impress  all  present  with  respect:  he  was  highly  astonished, 
when,  as  he  looked  round,  he  saw  a  smile  of  con'^mpt  upon 
every  one's  countenance  ;  and  he  was  yet  further  bewildered 
when  he  heard  her  spoken  of  as  a  very  silly,  extravagant, 
ridiculous  woman,  whose  opinion  no  prudent  person  would 
ask  upon  any  subject,  and  whose  example  was  to  be  shun- 
ned, instead  of  being  imitated. 

"  Ay,  my  dear  Hal,"  said  his  uncle,  smiling  at  his  look 
of  amazement,  "  these  are  some  of  the  things  that  young 
people  must  learn  from  experience.  All  the  world  do  not 
agree  in  opinion  about  characters  ;  you  will  hear  the  same 
person  admired  in  one  company,  and  blamed  in  another :  so 
that  we  must  still  come  round  to  the  same  point  —  Judge 
for  yourself." 


404  WASTE     NOT,    WANT     NOT. 

Hal's  thoughts  were,  however,  at  present,  too  full  cf  the 
uniform  to  allow  his  judgment  to  act  with  perfect  impar- 
tiality. As  soon  as  their  visit  was  over,  and  all  the  time 
they  walked  down  the  hill  from  Prince's  Buildings  towards 
Bristol,  he  continued  to  repeat  nearly  the  same  arguments, 
which  he  had  formerly  used,  respecting  necessity,  the  uni- 
form, and  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes. 

To  all  this  Mr.  Gresham  made  no  reply;  and  longer  had 
the  young  gentleman  expatiated  upon  the  subject,  which 
had  so  strongly  seized  upon  his  imagination,  had  not  his 
senses  been  forcibly  assailed  at  this  instant  by  the  delicious 
odours  and  tempting  sight  of  certain  cakes  and  jellies  in  a 
pastry-cook's  shop. 

"  0,  uncle,"  said  he,  as  his  uncle  was  going  to  turn  the 
corner  to  pursue  the  road  to  Bristol,  "  look  at  those  jellies  V* 
pointing  to  a  confectioner's  shop ;  "  I  must  buy  some  of 
those  good  things ;  for  I  have  got  some  half-pence  in  my 
pocket." 

"  Your  having  half-pence  in  your  pocket  is  an  excellent 
reason  for  eating,"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  smiling. 

"  But  I  really  am  hungry,"  said  Hal ;  "  you  know,  uncle, 
it  is  a  good  while  since  breakfast." 

His  uncle,  who  was  desirous  to  see  his  nephews  act  with- 
out restraint,  that  he  might  judge  of  their  characters,  bid 
them  do  as  they  pleased. 

"  Come,  then,  Ben,  if  you  've  any  half-pence  in  your 
pocket." 

"  I  am  not  hungry,"  said  Ben. 

"  I  suppose  that  means,  that  you  've  no  half-pence,"  said 
Hal,  laughing  with  the  look  of  superiority  which  he  had 
been  taught  to  think  the  rich  might  assume  towards  those 
who  were  convicted  either  of  poverty  or  economy. 

"Waste  not,  want  not,"  said  Ben  to  himself.  Contrary 
to  his  cousin's  surmise,  he  happened  to  have  two  penny- 
worth of  h  ilf-pence  actually  in  his  pocket. 

A_t  the  very  moment  Hal  stepped  into  the  pastry-cook's 


WASTE     NOT,    WANT     NOT. 


405 


snop  a  poor  industrious  man  with  a  wooden  leg,  who  usu- 
ally aweeps  the  dirty  corner  of  the  walk  which  turns  at  this 
spot  to  the  Wells,  held  his  hat  to  Ben,  who,  after  glancing 
his  eye  at  the  petitioner's  well-worn  broom,  instantly  pro- 
duced his  twopence.  "  I  wish  I  had  more  half-pence  for  you, 
my  good  man,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  've  only  twopence." 

Hal  came  out  of  Mr.  Millar's,  the  confectioner's  shop, 
with  a  hatful  of  cakes  in  his  hand. 

Mr.  Millar's  dog  was  sitting  on  the  flags  before  the  door ; 
and  he  looked  up,  with  a  wistful,  begging  eye,  at  Hal,  who 
was  eating  a  queen-cake. 

Hal,  who  was  wasteful  even  in  his  good-nature,  threw  a 
whole  queen-cake  to  the  dog,  who  swallowed  it  for  a  single 
mouthful. 

"  There  goes  twopence  in  the  form  of  a  queen-cake,"  said 
Mr.  Gresham. 

Hal  next  offered  some  of  his  cakes  to  his  uncle  and  cou- 
sin ;  but  they  thanked  him,  and  refused  to  eat  any,  because, 
they  said,  they  were  not  hungry ;  so  he  ate  and  ate,  as  he 
walked  along,  till  at  last  he  stopped,  and  said,  "  This  bun 
tastes  so  bad  after  the  queen-cakes,  I  can't  bear  it  I"  and 
he  was  going  to  fling  it  from  him  into  the  river. 

"  0,  it  is  a  pity  to  waste  that  good  bun ;  we  may  be  glad 
of  it  yet,"  said  Ben ;  "  give  it  to  me,  rather  than  throw  it 
away." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  said  you  were  not  hungry,"  said 
Hal. 

"  True,  I  am  not  hungry  now ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  never  be  hungry  again." 

"  Well,  there  is  the  cake  for  you  —  take  it ;  for  it  has 
made  me  sick  ;  and  I  do  n't  care  what  becomes  of  it." 

Ben  folded  the  refuse  bi*  of  his  cousin's  bun  in  a  piece 
of  paper,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

"  I  'm  beginning  to  be  exceeding  tired,  or  sick  or  some- 
thing," said  Hal,  "  and  as  there  is  a  stand  of  coaches  some- 
where hereabout,  had  we  not  better  take  a  coach,  instead 
of  walking  all  the  way  to  Bristol?" 


406  WASTE    NOT,    WANT     NOT. 

"  For  a  stout  archer !"  said  Mr.  Gresham  :  "  you  are  more 
easily  tired  than  one  might  have  expected.  However,  witn 
all  my  heart ;  let  us  take  a  coach :  for  Ben  asked  me  to 
show  him  the  cathedral  yesterday ;  and  I  believe  I  should 
find  it  rather  too  much  for  me  to  walk  so  far,  though  I  am 
not  sick  with  eating  good  things." 

"  The  cathedral!"  said  Hal,  after  he  had  been  seated  in 
the  coach  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  had  somewhat 
recovered  from  his  sickness.  "  The  cathedral !  Why,  are 
we  only  going  to  Bristol  to  see  the  cathedral  ?  —  I  thought 
we  came  out  to  see  about  a  uniform." 

There  was  a  dulness  and  melancholy  kind  of  stupidity  in 
Hal's  countenance,  as  he  pronounced  these  words  like  one 
waking  from  a  dream,  which  made  both  his  uncle  and  cou- 
sin burst  out  a  laughing. 

"  Why,"  said  Hal,  who  was  now  piqued,  "I'm  sure  you 
did  say,  uncle,  you  would  go  to  Mr.  ***'s,  to  choose  the 
cloth  for  the  uniform. " 

"  Very  true :  and  so  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  "  but  we 
need  not  make  a  whole  morning's  work,  need  we,  of  looking 
at  a  piece  of  cloth  ?  —  Cannot  we  see  a  uniform  and  a  cathe- 
dral both  in  one  morning?" 

They  went  first  to  the  cathedral.  Hal's  head  was  too  full 
of  the  uniform  to  take  any  notice  of  the  painted  window, 
which  immediately  caught  Ben's  unembarrassed  attention. 
He  looked  at  the  large  stained  figures  on  the  Gothic  win- 
dow ;  and  he  observed  their  coloured  shadows  on  the  flooi 
and  walls. 

Mr.  Gresham,  who  perceived  that  he  was  eager  on  all  sub- 
jects to  gain  information,  took  this  opportunity  of  telling 
him  several  things  about  the  lost  art  of  painting  on  glass, 
Gothic  arches,  &c,  which  Hal  thought  extremely  tiresome. 

"  Come !  come !  we  shall  be  late  indeed,"  said  Hal ; 
"  surely  you  've  looked  long  enough,  Ben,  at  this  blue  and 
red  window." 

"  I  'm  only  thinking  about  these  coloured  shadows,"  said 
Ben. 


WASTE     NOT,    WANT     NOT  407 

"  1  can  show  you,  when  we  go  home,  Ben,"  said  his  uncle, 
*an  entertaining  paper  on  such  shadows."* 

"  Hark  !"  cried  Ben,  "  did  you  hear  that  noise  ?" 

They  all  listened  ;  and  heard  a  bird  singing  in  the  cathe 
dral. 

"It's  our  old  robin,  sir,"  said  the  lad  who  had  opened 
the  cathedral  door  for  them. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  "there  he  is,  boys  —  look— - 
perched  upon  the  organ ;  he  often  sits  there,  and  sings, 
while  the  organ  is  playing."  —  "  And,"  continued  the  lad 
who  showed  the  cathedral,  "  he  has  lived  here  these  many 
winters :  f  they  say  he  is  fifteen  years  old ;  and  he  is  so 
tame,  poor  fellow,  that  if  I  had  a  bit  of  bread,  he  'd  come 
down  and  feed  in  my  hand." 

"I've  a  bit  of  bun  here,"  cried  Ben,  joyfully,  producing 
the  remains  of  the  bun  which  Hal  but  an  hour  before 
would  have  thrown  away.  "  Pray  let  us  see  the  robin  eat 
out  of  your  hand." 

The  lad  crumbled  the  bun,  and  called  to  the  robin,  who 
fluttered  and  chirped,  and  seemed  rejoiced  at  the  sight  of 
the  bread ;  but  yet  he  did  not  come  down  from  his  pinnacle 
on  the  organ. 

"  He  is  afraid  of  us"  said  Ben  ;  "  he  is  not  used  to  eat 
before  strangers,  I  suppose." 

"Ah,  no,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
"that  is  not  the  thing:  he  is  used  enough  to  eat  afore  com- 
pany ;  time  was,  he  'd  have  come  down  for  me  before  ever 
so  many  fine  folks,  and  have  eat  his  crumbs  out  of  my 
hand,  at  my  first  call ;  but,  poor  fellow,  it 's  not  his  fault 
now :  he  does  not  know  me  no\^,  sir,  since  my  accident, 
because  of  this  great  black  patch." 

The  young  man  put  his  hand  to  his  right  eye,  which  was 
covered  with  a  huge  black  patch. 

Ben  asked  wha,c  accident  he  meant ;  and  the  lad  told  him 

*  Vide  Priestley's  History  of  Vision,  chapter  on  coloured  shkMiows. 
f  This-  is  true 


408  WASTE    NOT,    WANT     NOT. 

that,  but  a  few  weeks  ago,  he  had  lost  the  sight  of  his  eye 
by  the  stroke  of  a  stone,  which  reached  him  as  he  was  pass 
ing  under  the  rocks  of  Clifton,  unluckily,  when  the  work- 
men were  blasting. 

"  I  do  n't  mind  so  much  for  myself,  sir,"  said  the  lad ; 
"  but  I  can't  work  so  well  now,  as  I  used  to  do  before  my 
accident,  for  my  old  mother,  who  has  had  a  stroke  cf  the 
palsy  ;  and  I  've  a  many  little  brothers  and  sisters,  net  well 
able  yet  to  get  their  own  livelihood,  though  they  be  willing 
as  willing  can  be." 

"  Where  does  your  mother  live  ?"  said  Mr.  Gresham. 

"Hard-by,  sir,  just  close  to  the  church  here:  it  was  her 
that  always  had  the  showing  of  it  to  strangers,  till  she  lost 
the  use  of  her  poor  limbs." 

"  Shall  we,  may  we,  uncle,  go  that  way  ?  —  This  is  the 
house:  is  not  it?"  said  Ben,  when  they  went  out  of  the 
cathedral. 

They  went  into  the  house :  it  was  rather  a  hovel  than  a 
house  ;  but,  poor  as  it  was,  it  was  as  neat  as  misery  could 
make  it. 

The  old  woman  was  sitting  up  in  her  wretched  bed  wind- 
ing worsted ;  four  meagre,  ill-clothed,  pale  children  were 
all  busy,  some  of  them  sticking  pins  in  paper  for  the  pin- 
maker,  and  others  sorting  rags  for  the  paper-maker. 

"  What  a  horrid  place  it  is  !"  said  Hal,  sighing ;  "  I  did 
not  know  there  were  such  shocking  places  in  the  world. 
I  've  often  seen  terrible-looking,  tumble-down  places,  as  we 
drove  through  the  town  in  mamma's  carriage ;  but  then  I 
did  not  know  who  lived  in  them ;  and  I  never  saw  the  inside 
rtf  any  of  them.  It  is  vsry  dreadful,  indeed,  to  think  that 
people  are  forced  to  live  in  this  way.  I  wish  mamma  would 
send  me  some  more  pocket-money,  that  I  might  do  some- 
thing for  them.  I  had  half  a  crown  ;  but,"  continued  he, 
feeling  in  his  pockets,  "  I  'm  afraid  I  spent  the  last  shilling 
of  it  this  morning,  upon  those  cakes  that  made  me  sick.  I 
wish  T  had  my  shilling  now,  I'd  give  it  to  these  poor  people." 


WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT.  409 

Ben,  though  he  was  all  this  time  silent,  was  as  sorry  as 
his  talkative  cousin  for  these  poor  people.  But  there  was 
Rome  difference  between  the  sorrow  of  these  two  boys. 

Hal,  after  he  was  again  seated  in  the  hackney-coach,  and 
had  rattled  through  the  busy  streets  of  Bristol  for  a  few 
minutes,  quite  forgot  the  spectacle  of  misery  which  he  had 
seen  ;  and  the  gay  shops  in  Wine-street,  and  the  idea  of 
his  green  and  white  uniform,  wholly  occupied  his  imagina- 
tion. 

"Now  for  our  uniforms  !"  cried  he,  as  he  jumped  eagerly 
out  of  the  coach,  when  his  uncle  stopped  at  the  woollen-dra- 
per's door. 

"  Uncle,"  said  Ben,  stopping  Mr.  Gresham  before  he  got 
out  of  the  carriage,  "I  do  n't  think  a  uniform  is  at  all  neces- 
sary for  me.  I  'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  ;  but  I  would 
rather  not  have  one.  I  have  a  very  good  coat ;  and  I  think 
it  would  be  waste." 

"  Well,  let  me  get  out  of  the  carriage,  and  we  will  see 
about  it,"  said  Mr.  Gresham  ;  "  perhaps  the  sight  of  the 
beautiful  green  and  white  cloth,  and  the  epaulets  (have  you 
ever  considered  the  epaulets?)  may  tempt  you  to  change 
your  mind." 

"  0  no,"  said  Ben,  laughing;  "I  shall  not  change  my 
mind." 

The  green  cloth,  and  the  white  cloth,  and  the  epaulets 
were  produced,  to  Hal's  infinite  satisfaction.  His  uncle 
took  up  a  pen,  and  calculated  for  a  few  minutes ;  then, 
showing  the  back  of  the  letter,  upon  which  he  was  writing 
to  his  nephews,  "  Cast  up  these  sums,  boys,"  said  he,  "  and 
tell  me  whether  I  am  right." 

"  Ben,  do  you  do  it,"  said  Hal,  a  little  embarrassed :  "  I 
am  not  quick  at  figures." 

Ben  was,  and  he  went  over  his  uncle's  calculation  very 
expeditiously. 

"It  is  right,  is  it?"  said  Mr.  Gresham. 

"  Yes,  sir,  quite  right." 


410  WASTE    NOT,    WANT     NOT. 

"  Then,  by  this  calculation,  1  find  I  could  for  less  thai 
half  the  money  your  uniforms  would  cost  purchase  for  each 
of  you  boys  a  warm  great-coat,  which  you  will  want,  I  have 
a  notion,  this  winter  upon  the  Downs." 

"0,  sir,"  said  Hal,  with  an  alarmed  look;  "but  it  is  not 
winter  yet;  it  is  not  cold  weather  yet.  We  shan't  want 
great-coats  yet." 

"Don't  you  remember  how  cold  we  were,  Hal,  the  day 
before  yesterday,  in  that  sharp  wind,  when  we  were  flying 
our  kite  upon  the  Downs  ?  —  and  winter  will  come,  though 
it  is  not  come  yet  —  I  am  sure,  I  should  like  to  have  a  good 
warm  great-coat  very  much." 

Mr.  Gresham  took  six  guineas  out  of  his  purse ;  and  he 
placed  three  of  them  before  Hal,  and  three  before  Ben. 

"  Young  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  I  believe  your  uniforms 
would  come  to  about  three  guineas  apiece.  Now  I  will  lay 
out  this  money  for  you  just  as  you  please:  Hal,  what  say 
you  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Hal,  "  a  great-coat  is  a  good  thing,  to 
be  sure  ;  and  then,  after  the  great-coat,  as  you  said  it  would 
only  cost  half  as  much  as  the  uniform,  there  would  be  some 
money  to  spare,  would  not  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  about  five-and-twenty  shillings." 

"  Five-and-twenty  shillings  !  I  could  buy  and  do  a  great 
many  things,  to  be  sure,  with  five-and-twenty  shillings  ;  but 
then,  the  tiling  is,  I  must  go  without  the  uniform,  if  I  have 
the  great-coat." 

"  Certainly,"  said  his  uncle. 

"Ah!"  said  Hal,  sighing  as  he  looked  at  the  epaulets 
"  uncle,  if  you  would  not  be  displeased,  if  I  choose  the  uni- 
form—" 

"  I  shall  not  be  displeased  at  your  choosing  whatever  you 
like  best,"  said  Mr.  Gresham. 

"  Well,  then,  thank  you,  sir,  I  think  I  had  better  have  the 
uniform  because  if  I  have  not  the  uniform  now  directly  it 
will  be  of  no  use  to  me,  as  the  archery  meeting  is  the  week 


WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT.  411 

after  next,  you  know;  and  as  to  the  great-coat,  perhaps 
between  this  time  and  the  very  cold  weather,  which,  per- 
haps, won't  be  till  Christmas,  papa  will  buy  a  great-coat  for 
me  ;  and  I'll  ask  mamma  to  give  me  some  pocket-money  to 
give  away,  and  she  will,  perhaps." 

To  all  this  conclusive,  conditional  reasoning,  which 
depended  upon  perhaps  three  times  repeated,  Mr.  Gresham 
made  no  reply  ;  but  he  immediately  bought  the  uniform  for 
Hal,  and  desired  that  it  should  be  sent  to  Lady  Diana 
Sweepstakes'  sons'  tailor,  to  be  made  up.  The  measure  of 
Hall's  happiness  was  now  complete. 

"  And  how  am  I  to  lay  out  the  three  guineas  for  you, 
Ben  ?"  said  Mr.  Gresham  ;  "  speak,  what  do  you  wish  for 
first?" 

"  A  great-coat,  uncle,  if  you  please." 

Mr.  Gresham  bought  the  coat ;  and,  after  it  was  paid  for, 
five-and-twenty  shillings  of  Ben's  three  guineas  remained. 

"  What 's  next,  my  boy  ?"  said  his  uncle. 

"  Arrows,  uncle,  if  you  please  :  three  arrows." 

"  My  dear,  I  promised  you  a  bow  and  arrows." 

"  No,  uncle,  you  only  said  a  bow." 

""Well,  I  meant  a  bow  and  arrows.  I'm  glad  you  are  so 
exact,  however.  It  is  better  to  claim  less  than  more  than 
what  is  promised.  The  three  arrows  you  shall  have.  But, 
go  on  ;  how  shall  I  dispose  of  these  five-and-twenty  shillings 
for  you  ?" 

"  In  clothes,  if  you  will  be  so  good,  uncle,  for  that  poor 
boy  who  has  the  great  black  patch  on  his  eye." 

"  I  always  believed,"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  shaking  hands 
with  Ben,  "  that  economy  and  generosity  were  the  best 
friends,  instead  of  being  enemies,  as  some  silly  extravagant 
people  would  have  us  think  them.  Choose  the  poor  blind 
boy's  coat,  my  dear  nephew,  and  pay  for  it.  There 's  no 
occasion  for  praising  you  about  the  matter ;  your  best 
reward  ia  in  your  mind,  child;  and  you  want  no  other,  or 
I'm  mistaken.     Now  jump  into  the  coach,  boys,  and  let's 


412  WASTE     NOT,    WANT    NOT. 

be  off.  We  shall  be  late,  I  'm  afraid,"  continued  he,  as  the 
coach  Irove  on  ;  "  but  I  must  let  you  stop,  Ben,  with  your 
goods,  at  the  poor  boy's  door." 

"When  they  came  to  the  house,  Mr.  Gresham  opened  the 
coach-door,  and  Ben  jumped  out  with  his  parcel  under  his 
arm. 

"  Stay !  stay !  you  must  take  me  with  you,"  said  his 
pleased  uncle ;  "  I  like  to  see  people  made  happy,  as  well 
as  you  do." 

"  And  so  do  I,  too  !"  said  Hal ;  "  let  me  come  with  you  , 
I  almost  wish  my  uniform  was  not  gone  to  the  tailor's,  so  I 
do." 

And  when  he  saw  the  look  of  delight  and  gratitude  with 
which  the  poor  boy  received  the  clothes  which  Ben  gave 
him,  and  when  he  heard  the  mother  and  children  thank 
him,  Hal  sighed,  and  said,  "  Well,  I  hope  mamma  will  give 
me  some  more  pocket-money  soon." 

Upon  his  return  home,  however,  the  sight  of  the  famous 
bow  and  arrow  which  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes  had  sent 
him  recalled  to  his  imagination  all  the  joys  of  his  green  and 
white  uniform  ;  and  he  no  longer  wished  that  it  had  not 
been  sent  to  the  tailor's. 

"But  I  don't  understand,  cousin  Hal,"  said  little  Patty, 
"why  you  call  thisbowa/owiows  bow:  you  say  famous  very 
often  ;  and  I  do  n't  know  exactly  what  it  means  —  a  famous 
uniform  — famous  doings  —  I  remember  you  said  there  are 
to  he  famous  doings  the  first  of  September  upon  the  Downs 
— "What  does  famous  mean?" 

"  0,  why  famous  means  —  Now  do  n't  you  know  what 
famous  means  ? — It  means — It  is  a  word  that  people  say — 
£t  is  the  fashion  to  say  it — it  means — it  rn.ea.ns  famous." 

Patty  laughed,  and  said,  "  This  does  not  explain  it  to  me." 

"  No,"  said  Hal.  "  nor  can  it  be  explained :  if  you  do  n't 
understand  it,  that's  not  my  fault:  everybody  but  little 
children,  I  suppose,  understands  it ;  but  there 's  no  explain- 
ing tJwse  sort  of  words,  if  you   don't  take  them  at  once. 


WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT.  413 

i'here  's  tc  be  famous  doings  upon  the  Downs,  the  first  of 
September;  that  is,  grand,  fine.  —  In  short,  what  does  it 
signify  talking  any  longer,  Patty,  about  the  matter?  —  Give 
me  my  bow;  for  I  must  go  out  upon  the  Downs  and  prac- 
tise." 

Ben  accompanied  him  with  a  bow  and  three  arrows  which 
his  uncle  had  now  given  to  him  ;  and  every  day  these  two 
boys  went  out  upon  the  Downs,  and  practised  shooting  with 
indefatigable  perseverance.  Where  equal  pains  are  taken, 
success  is  usually  found  to  be  pretty  nearly  equal.  Our  two 
archers,  by  constant  practice,  became  expert  marksmen ; 
and  before  the  day  of  trial,  they  were  so  exactly  matched 
in  point  of  dexterity,  that  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  decide 
which  was  superior. 

The  long-expected  first  of  September  at  length  arrived 
"  "What  sort  of  a  day  is  it  Y*  was  the  first  question  that  was 
asked  by  Hal  and  Ben,  the  moment  that  they  awoke. 

The  sun  shone  bright;  but  there  was  a  sharp  and  high 
wind. 

"Ha!"  said  Ben,  "I  shall  be  glad  of  my  great-coat 
to-day ;  for  I  've  a  notion  it  will  be  rather  cold  upon  the 
Downs,  especially  when  we  are  standing  still,  as  we  must, 
while  all  the  people  are  shooting." 

"  0,  never  mind !  I  do  n't  think  I  shall  feel  it  cold  at 
all,"  said  Hal,  as  he  dressed  himself  in  his  new  green  and 
white  uniform  ;  and  he  viewed  himself  with  much  compla- 
cency. 

"  Good-morning  to  you,  uncle  ;  how  do  you  do  ?"  said  he> 
in  a  voice  of  exultation,  when  he  entered  the  breakfast- 
room. 

How  do  you  do  ?  seemed  rather  to  mean,  how  do  you  like 
me  in  my  uniform  ? 

And  his  uncle's  cool,  "  Very  well,  I  thank  you,  Hal,"  dis- 
appointed him,  as  it  seemed  only  to  say,  Your  uniform 
makes  no  difference  in  my  opinion  of  you. 

Even  little  Patty  went  on  eating  her  breakfast  n?  uch  as 


414  WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT. 

usual,  and  talked  of  the  pleasure  of  walking  with  her  father 
to  the  Downs,  and  of  all  the  little  things  which  interested 
her;  so  that  Hal's  epaulets  were  not  the  principal  object  in 
any  one's  imagination  but  his  own. 

"  Papa,"  said  Patty,  "  as  we  go  up  the  hill  where  there 
is  so  much  red  mud,  I  must  take  care  to  pick  my  way  nicely : 
and  I  must  hold  up  my  frock,  as  you  desired  me ;  and  per- 
haps you  will  be  so  good,  if  I  am  not  troublesome,  to  lift 
me  over  the  very  bad  place  where  there  are  no  stepping- 
stones.  My  ankle  is  entirely  well,  and  I'm  glad  of  that,  or 
else  I  should  not  be  able  to  walk  so  far  as  the  Downs.  How 
good  you  were  to  me,  Ben,  when  I  was  in  pain,  the  day  I 
sprained  my  ankle  !  you  played  at  jack-straws,  and  at  cat's- 
cradle,  with  me  —  0,  that  puts  me  in  mind  —  Here  are  your 
gloves,  which  I  asked  you  that  night  to  let  me  mend.  I  've 
been  a  great  while  about  them,  but  are  not  they  neatly 
mended,  papa  ?  —  look  at  the  sewing." 

"I  am  not  a  very  good  judge  of  sewing,  my  dear  little 
girl,"  said  Mr.  Gresham,  examining  the  work  with  a  close 
and  scrupulous  eye  ;  "  but  in  my  opinion  here  is  one  stitch 
that  is  rather  too  long ;  the  white  teeth  are  not  quite  even." 

"  0,  papa,  I  '11  take  out  that  long  tooth  in  a  minute,"  said 
Patty,  laughing ;  "  I  did  not  think  that  you  would  have 
observed  it  so  soon." 

"  I  would  not  have  you  trust  to  my  blindness,"  said  her 
father,  stroking  her  head  fondly:  "I  observe  everything. 
I  observe,  for  instance,  that  you  are  a  grateful  little  girl, 
and  that  you  are  glad  to  be  of  use  to  those  who  have  been 
kind  to  you ;  and  for  this  I  forgive  you  the  long  stitch." 

"But  it's  out,  it's  out,  papa,"  said  Patty;  "and  the 
next  time  your  gloves  want  mending,  Ben,  I  '11  mend  them 
better." 

"  They  are  very  nice,  I  think,"  said  Ben,  drawing  them 
jn  ;  "  and  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  ;  I  was  just  wishing  I 
had  a  pair  of  gloves  to  keep  my  fingers  warm  to-day,  for  I 
never  can  shoot  well  when  my  hands  are  numbed.     Lok, 


WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT.  415 

Hal  —  you  know  how  ragged  these  gloves  were  ;  you  said 
they  were  good  for  nothing  but  to  throw  away ;  now  look, 
there  's  not  a  hole  in  them,"  said  he,  spreading  his  fingers 

"Now,  is  it  not  very  extraordinary,"  said  Hal  to  himself, 
"  that  they  should  go  on  so  long  talking  about  an  old  pair 
of  gloves,  without  scarcely  saying  a  word  about  my  new 
uniform  ?  Well,  the  young  Sweepstakes  and  Lady  Diana 
will  talk  enough  about  it ;  that 's  one  comfort." 

"Is  not  it  time  to  think  of  setting  out,  sir?"  said  Hal  to 
his  uncle ;  "  the  company,  you  know,  are  to  meet  at  the 
Ostrich  at  twelve,  and  the  race  to  begin  at  one,  and  Lady 
Diana's  horses,  I  know,  were  ordered  to  be  at  the  door  at 
ten." 

Mr.  Stephen,  the  butler,  here  interrupted  the  hurrying 
young  gentleman  in  his  calculations  —  "  There 's  a  poor  lad, 
sir,  below,  with  a  great  black  patch  on  his  right  eye,  who  is 
come  from  Bristol,  and  wants  to  speak  a  word  with  the 
young  gentlemen,  if  you  please.  I  told  him  they  were  just 
going  out  with  you,  but  he  says  he  won't  detain  them  above 
half  a  minute." 

"  Show  him  up,  show  him  up,"  said  Mr.  Gresham. 

"  But  I  suppose,"  said  Hal,  with  a  sigh,  "  that  Stephen 
mistook,  when  he  said  the  young  gentlemen ;  he  only  wants 
to  see  Ben,  I  dare  say ;  I  'm  sure  he  has  no  reason  to  want 
to  see  me." 

"  Here  he  comes.  —  0,  Ben,  he  is  dressed  in  the  new  coat 
you  gave  him,"  whispered  Hal,  who  was  really  a  good- 
natured  boy,  though  extravagant.  "  How  much  better  he 
looks  than  he  did  in  the  ragged  coat !  Ah !  he  looked  at 
yi>u  first,  Ben  ;  —  and  well  he  may !" 

The  boy  bowed,  without  any  cringing  civility,  but  with 
an  open,  decent  freedom  "in  his  manner,  which  expressed 
that  he  had  been  obliged,  but  that  he  knew  his  young  bene- 
factor was  not  thinking  of  the  obligation.  He  made  as  little 
distinction  as  possible  between  his  bows  to  the  two  cousins. 

"As  I  was  sent  with  a  message,  by  the  clerk  of  our  par 


416  WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT. 

ish,  to  "Redland  Chapel,  on  the  Downs  to-day,  sir,"  said  he 
to  Mr.  Gresham,  "  knowing  your  house  lay  in  my  way,  my 
mother,  sir,  bid  me  call,  and  make  bold  to  offer  the  young 
gentlemen  two  little  worsted  balls  that  she  had  worked  for 
them,"  continued  the  lad,  pulling  out  of  his  pocket  twc 
worsted  balls  worked  in  green  and  orange-coloured  stripes : 
"  they  are  but  poor  things,  sir,  she  bid  me  say,  to  look  at, 
but,  considering  she  had  but  one  hand  to  work  with,  and 
that  her  left  hand,  you  '11  not  despise  'em,  we  hopes." 

He  held  the  balls  to  Ben  and  Hal.  — "  They  are  both 
alike,  gentlemen,"  said  he;  "if  you'll  be  pleased  to  take 
'em,  they  are  better  than  they  look,  for  they  bound  higher 
than  your  head ;  I  cut  the  cork  round  for  the  inside  myself, 
which  was  all  I  could  do." 

"  They  are  nice  balls  indeed ;  we  are  much  obliged  to 
you,"  said  the  boys  as  they  received  them,  and  they  proved 
them  immediately.  The  balls  struck  the  floor  with  a 
delightful  sound,  and  rebounded  higher  than  Mr.  Gresham's 
head.  Little  Patty  clapped  her  hands  joyfully;  but  now  a 
thundering  double  rap  at  the  door  was  heard. 

"  The  Masters  Sweepstakes,  sir,"  said  Stephen,  "  are  come 
for  Master  Hal ;  they  say  that  all  the  young  gentlemen  who 
have  archery  uniforms  are  to  walk  together  in  a  body,  I 
think  they  say,  sir ;  and  they  are  to  parade  along  the  Well 
Walk,  they  desired  me  to  say,  sir,  with  a  drum  and  fife,  and 
so  up  the  hill  by  Prince's  Place,  and  all  go  upon  the  Downs 
together,  to  the  place  of  meeting.  I  am  not  sure  I  'm  right 
sir,  for  both  the  young  gentlemen  spoke  at  once,  and  the 
wind  is  very  high  at  the  street-door,  so  that  I  could  not 
well  make  out  all  they  said ;  but  I  believe  this  is  the  sense 
of  it." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Hal,  eagerly,  "it's  all  right;  I  know 
that  is  just  what  was  settled  the  day  I  dined  at  Lady 
Diana's ;  and  Lady  Diana  and  a  great  party  of  gentlemen 
are  to  ride — " 

"  Well,  than  is  nothing  to  the  purpose,"  interrupted  Mr. 


"WASTE     NOT,    WANT     NOT.  417 

Gresham.  "  Do  n't  keep  the  Masters  Sweepstakes  waiting ; 
decide  —  do  you  choose  to  go  with  them,  or  with  us?" 

"  Sir — uncle — sir,  you  know,  since  all  the  uniforms  agreed 
to  go  together — " 

"  Off  with  you,  then,  Mr.  Uniform,  if  you  mean  to  go," 
said  Mr.  Gresham. 

Hal  ran  down-stairs  in  such  a  hurry  that  he  forgot  hi? 
bow  and  arrows.  Ben  discovered  this  when  he  went  to 
fetch  his  own;  and  the  lad  from  Bristol,  who  had  been 
ordered  by  Mr.  Gresham  to  eat  his  breakfast  before  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Redland  Chapel,  heard  Ben  talking  about  his 
cousin's  bow  and  arrows. 

"  I  know,"  said  Ben,  "  he  will  be  sorry  not  to  have  his 
bow  with  him,  because  here  are  the  green  knots  tied  to  it, 
to  match  his  cockade ;  and  he  said  that  the  boys  were  all  to 
carry  their  bows,  as  a  part  of  the  show." 

"  If  you  '11  give  me  leave,  sir,"  said  the  poor  Bristol  lad, 
"  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time ;  and  I  '11  run  down  to  the 
Well  Walk  after  the  young  gentleman,  and  take  him  hi? 
bow  and  arrows." 

"  Will  you  ?  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Ben  ; 
and  away  went  the  boy  with  the  bow  that  was  ornamented 
with  green  ribands. 

The  public  walk  leading  to  the  Wells  was  full  of  com- 
pany. The  windows  of  all  the  houses  in  St.  Vincent's 
parade  were  crowded  with  well-dressed  ladies,  who  were 
looking  out  in  expectation  of  the  archery  procession.  Par- 
ties of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  and  a  motley  crowd  of  spec- 
tators, wore  seen  moving  backward  and  forward  under  the 
rocks,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  water.  A  barge,  with 
coloured  streamers  flying,  was  waiting  to  take  up  a  party, 
who  were  going  upon  the  water.  The  bargemen  rested 
upon  their  oars,  and  gazed  with  broad  faces  of  curiosity 
upon  the  busy  scene  that  appeared  upon  the  public  walk. 

The  archers  and  archeresses  were  now  drawn  up  on  the 
flags  under  the  semicircular  piazza  just  before  Mrs.  Years- 
27 


418  WASTE     NOT,    WOT    NOT. 

ley's  library.  A  little  band  of  children,  wlb  had  been 
mustered  by  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes'  spirited  exertions, 
closed  the  procession.  They  were  now  all  in  readiness. 
The  drummer  only  waited  for  her  ladyship's  signal;  and 
the  archers'  corps  only  waited  for  her  ladyship's  word  of 
command  to  raarch. 

"  Where  are  your  bow  and  arrows,  my  little  man  V*  said 
her  ladyship  to  Hal,  as  she  reviewed  her  Lilliputian  regi- 
ment.    "  You  can't  march,  man,  without  your  arms !" 

Hal  had  despatched  a  messenger  for  his  forgotten  bow, 
but  the  messenger  returned  not ;  he  looked  from  side  to  side 
in  great  distress  —  "  0,  there's  my  bow  coming,  I  declare!'' 
cried  he  —  "look,  I  see  the  bow  and  the  ribands;  —  look 
now,  between  the  trees,  Charles  Sweepstakes,  on  the  Hot- 
well  Walk ;  —  it  is  coming !" 

"But  you've  kept  us  all  waiting  a  confounded  time," 
said  his  impatient  friend. 

"  It  is  that  good-natured  poor  fellow  from  Bristol,  I  pro- 
test, that  has  brought  it  to  me  ;  I  'm  sure  I  do  n't  deserve  it 
from  him,"  said  Hal  to  himself,  when  he  saw  the  lad  with 
the  black  patch  on  his  eye  running,  quite  out  of  breath, 
towards  him  with  his  bow  and  arrows. 

"  Fall  back,  my  good  friend,  fall  back,"  said  the  military 
lady,  as  soon  as  he  had  delivered  the  bow  to  Hal ;  "  I 
mean,  stand  out  of  the  way,  for  your  great  patch  cuts  no 
figure  among  us.  Do  n't  follow  so  close,  now,  as  if  you 
belonged  to  us,  pray." 

The  poor  boy  had  no  ambition  to  partake  the  triumph ; 
hsfell  back  as  soon  as  he  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
lady's  words.  The  drum  beat,  the  fife  played,  the  archers 
marched,  the  spectators  admired.  Hal  stepped  proudly, 
and  felt  as  if  the  eyes  of  the  whole  universe  were  upon  his 
epaulets,  or  upon  the  facings  of  his  uniform ;  while  all  the 
time  he  was  considered  only  as  part  of  a  show.  The  walk 
appeared  much  shorter  than  usual ;  and  he  was  extremely 
sorry  that  Lady  Diana,  when  they  were  half-way  up  the  hill 


WASTE     NOT,    WANT     NOT.  419 

leading  to  Prince's  Place,  mounted  her  horse,  because  the 
road  was  dirty,  and  all  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  who  accom- 
panied her  followed  her  example.*  "  We  can  leave  the  chil- 
dren to  walk,  you  know,"  said  she  to  the  gentleman  who 
helpecl  her  to  mount  her  horse.  "  I  must  call  to  some  of 
them,  though,  and  leave  orders  where  they  are  to  join." 

She  beckoned :  and  Hal,  who  was  foremost,  and  proud  to 
show  his  alacrity,  ran  on  to  receive  her  ladyship's  orders. 
Now,  as  we  have  before  observed,  it  was  a  sharp  and  windy 
day ;  and  though  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes  was  actually 
speaking  to  him,  and  looking  at  him,  he  could  not  prevent 
his  nose  from  wanting  to  be  blowed:  he  pulled  out  his 
handkerchief,  and  out  rolled  the  new  ball  which  had  been 
given  to  him  just  before  he  left  home,  and  which,  according 
to  his  usual  careless  habits,  he  had  stuffed  into  his  pocket 
in  a  hurry.  "  0,  my  new  ball !"  cried  he,  as  he  ran  after 
it.  As  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  he  let  go  his  hat,  to  which  he 
had  hitherto  held  on  with  anxious  care ;  for  the  hat,  though 
it  had  a  fine  green  and  white  cockade,  had  no  band  or  string 
round  it.  The  string,  as  we  may  recollect,  our  wasteful 
hero  had  used  in  spinning  his  top.  The  hat  was  too  large 
for  his  head  without  this  band  ;  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  blew 
it  off —  Lady  Diana's  horse  started  and  reared.  She  was  a 
famous  horsewoman,  and  sat  him  to  the  admiration  of  all 
beholders ;  but  there  was  a  puddle  of  red  clay  and  water 
in  this  spot,  and  her  ladyship's  uniform-habit  was  a  sufferer 
by  the  accident. 

"Careless  brat!'7  said  she,  "why  can't  he  keep  his  hat 
upon  his  head  ?" 

In  the  mean  time,  the  wind  blew  the  hat  down  the  hill, 
and  Hal  ran  after  it,  amid  the  laughter  of  his  kind  friends, 
the  yDung  Sweepstakes,  and  the  rest  of  the  little  regiment. 
The  hat  was  lodged,  at  length,  upon  a  bank.  Hal  pursued 
it:  he  thought  this  bank  was  hard,  but,  alas!  the  moment 
he  set  his  foot  upon  it,  the  foot  sank.  He  tried  to  draw  it 
back,  his  other  foot  slioped,  and  he  fell  prostrate,  in  his 


420  WASTE   NOT,    WANT    NOT. 

green  and  white  uniform,  into  the  treacherous  bed  of  red 
mud.  His  companions,  who  had  halted  upon  the  top  of  the 
hill,  stood  laughing  spectators  of  his  misfortune. 

It  happened  that  the  poor  boj  with  the  black  patch  upon 
his  eye,  who  had  been  ordered  by  Lady  Diana  to  "fall  back,'" 
and  to  "  keep  at  a  distance"  was  now  coming  up  the  hill ; 
and  the  moment  he  saw  our  fallen  hero,  he  hastened  to  his 
assistance.  He  dragged  poor  Hal,  who  was  a  deplorable 
spectacle,  out  of  the  red  mud;  the  obliging  mistress  of  a 
lodging-house,  as  soon  as  she  understood  that  the  young 
gentleman  was  nephew  to  Mr.  Gresham,  to  whom  she  had 
formerly  let  her  house,  received  Hal,  covered  as  he  was 
with  dirt. 

The  poor  Bristol  lad  hastened  to  Mr.  Gresbam's  for  clean 
stockings  and  shoes  for  Hal.  He  was  unwilling  to  give  up 
his  uniform ;  it  was  rubbed  and  rubbed,  and  a  spot  here 
and  there  was  washed  out;  and  he  kept  continually  repeat- 
ing—  "When  it's  dry  it  will  all  brush  off;  when  it's  dry 
it  will  all  brush  off,  won't  it?"  —  But  soon  the  fear  of  being 
too  late  at  the  archery-meeting  began  to  balance  the  dread 
of  appearing  in  his  stained  habiliments ;  and  he  now  as 
anxiously  repeated,  while  the  woman  held  the  wet  coat  to 
the  fire,  "  0,  I  shall  be  too  late ;  indeed,  I  shall  be  too  late ; 
make  haste  ;  it  will  never  dry;  hold  it  nearer  —  nearer  to 
the  fire  ;  I  shall  lose  my  turn  to  shoot ;  0,  give  me  the  coat ; 
I  do  n't  mind  how  it  is,  if  I  can  but  get  it  on." 

Holding  it  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  fire  dried  it  quickly, 
to  be  sure,  but  it  shrank  it  also,  so  that  it  was  no  easy  mat- 
ter to  get  the  coat  on  again. 

However,  Hal,  who  did  not  see  the  red  splashes  which,  in 
spite  of  all  the  operations,  were  too  visible  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, and  upon  the  skirts  of  his  white  coat  behind,  was 
pretty  well  satisfied  to  observe,  that  there  was  not  one  spot 
upon  the  facings.  "  Nobody,"  said  he,  "  will  take  notice 
of  my  coat  behind,  I  dare  say.  I  think  it  looks  as  smart 
almost  as  ever !"  —  and  under  this  persuasion  our  young 


"  O,  GIVE    ME    THE    COAT." 


WASTE     NOT,    WANT     NOT.  421 

archer  resumed  his  bow  —  his  bow  with  green  ribands  now 
no  more!  —  and  he  pursued  his  way  to  the  Downs 

All  his  companions  were  far  out  of  sight.  "  I  suppose/' 
said  he  to  his  friend  with  the  black  patch  —  "I  suppose  my 
uncle  and  Ben  had  left  home  before  you  went  for  the  shoes 
and  stockings  for  me  ?" 

"  0,  yes,  sir  ;  the  butler  said  they  had  been  gone  to  tiie 
Downs  a  matter  of  a  good  half-hour  or  more." 

Hal  trudged  on  as  fast  as  he  possibly  could.  When  he 
got  upon  the  Downs,  he  saw  numbers  of  carriages,  and 
crowds  of  people,  all  going  towards  the  place  of  meeting, 
at  the  Ostrich.  He  pressed  forward ;  he  was  at  first  so 
much  afraid  of  being  late,  that  he  did  not  take  notice  of  the 
mirth  his  motley  appearance  excited  in  all  beholders.  At 
length  he  reached  the  appointed  spot.  There  was  a  great 
crowd  of  people :  in  the  midst,  he  heard  Lady  Diana's  loud 
voice  betting  upon  some  one,  who  was  just  going  to  shoot 
at  the  mark. 

"  So,  then,  the  shooting  is  begun,  is  it?"  said  Hal.  "0, 
let  me  in !  pray  let  me  into  the  circle !  I  'm  one  of  the 
archers  —  I  am,  indeed  ;  do  n't  you  see  my  green  and  white 
uniform  V 

"Your  red  and  white  uniform,  you  mean,"  said  the  man 
to  whom  he  addressed  himself;  and  the  people,  as  they 
opened  a  passage  for  him,  could  not  refrain  from  laughing 
at  the  mixture  of  dirt  and  finery  which  it  exhibited.  In 
vain,  when  he  got  into  the  midst  of  the  formidable  circle, 
he  looked  to  his  friends,  the  young  Sweepstakes,  for  their 
countenance  and  support :  they  were  among  the  most 
unmerciful  of  the  laughers.  Lady  Diana  also  seemed 
more  to  enjoy  than  to  pity  his  confusion. 

"  Why  could  you  not  keep  your  hat  upon  your  head, 
man?"  said  she,  in  her  masculine  tone.  "You  have  been 
almost  the  ruin  of  my  poor  uniform-habit ;  but  I  've  escaped 
rather  better  than  you  have.     Don't  stand  there,  in  thq 


422  WASTE     NOT      WANT     NOT. 

middle  of  the  circle,  or  you  .1  have  an  arrow  in  your  eyes 
just  now,  I  've  a  notion." 

Hal  looked  round,  in  search  of  better  friends  —  "0. 
where's  my  uncle  —  where 's  Ben?"  said  he.  He  was  in 
such  confusion  that,  among  the  number  of  faces,  he  could 
scarcely  distinguish  one  from  another  ;  but  he  felt  somebody 
at  this  moment  pull  his  elbow,  and,  to  his  great  relief,  he 
heard  the  friendly  voice,  and  saw  the  good-natured  face,  of 
his  cousin  Ben. 

"  Come  back ;  come  behind  these  people,"  said  Ben ; 
"  and  put  on  my  great-coat ;  here  it  is  for  you." 

Right  glad  was  Hal  to  cover  his  disgraced  uniform  with 
the  rough  great-coat  which  he  had  formerly  despised.  He 
pulled  the  stained,  drooping  cockade  out  of  his  unfortunate 
hat ;  and  he  was  now  sufficiently  recovered  from  his  vexa- 
tion to  give  an  intelligible  account  of  his  accident  to  his 
uncle  and  Patty,  who  anxiously  inquired  what  had  detained 
him  so  long,  and  what  had  been  the  matter.  In  the  midst 
of  the  history  of  his  disaster,  he  was  just  proving  to  Patty 
that  his  taking  his  hat-band  to  spin  his  top  had  nothing  to 
do  with  his  misfortune  ;  and  he  was  at  the  same  time  endea- 
vouring to  refute  his  uncle's  opinion,  that  the  waste  of  the 
whip-cord  that  tied  the  parce  was  the  original  cause  of  all 
his  evils,  when  he  was  summoned  to  try  his  skill  with  his 
famous  bow. 

"My  hands  are  numbed,  I  can  scarcely  feel,"  said  he, 
rubbing  them,  and  blowing  upon  the  ends  of  his  fingers. 

"  Come,  come,"  cried  young  Sweepstakes,  "  I  'm  within 
one  inch  of  the  mark ;  who  '11  go  nearer,  I  shall  like  to  see. 
Shoot  away,  Hal ;  but  first  understand  our  laws :  we  settled 
them  before  you  cam'±  upon  the  green.  You  are  to  have 
three  shots,  with  }7our  own  bow  and  your  own  arrows;  and 
nobody 's  to  borrow  or  lend  under  pretence  of  other  bows 
being  better  or  worse,  or  under  any  pretence.  —  Do  you  hear, 
HalT' 

This  young  gentleman  had  good  reasons  for  being  so  strict 


WASTE     NOT,     WAIT     NOT.  423 

in  these  laws,  as  he  had  observed  that  none  of  his  compa- 
nions had  such  an  excellent  bow  as  he  had  provided  for 
himself.  Some  of  the  boys  had  forgotten  to  bring  more 
than  one  arrow  with  them,  and  by  his  cunning  regulation, 
that  each  person  should  shoot  with  his  own  arrows,  many 
had  lost  one  or  two  of  their  shots. 

"  You  are  a  lucky  fellow ;  you  have  your  three  arrows," 
said  young  Sweepstakes.  "  Come,  we  can't  wait  while  you 
rub  your  fingers,  man  —  shoot  away." 

Hal  was  rather  surprised  at  the  asperity  with  which  his 
friend  spoke.  He  little  knew  how  easily  acquaintances, 
who  call  themselves  friends,  can  change,  when  their  inte- 
rest comes  in  the  slightest  degree  in  competition  with  their 
friendship.  Hurried  by  his  impatient  rival,  and  with  his 
hands  so  mucn  benumbed  that  he  could  scarcely  feel  how 
to  fix  the  arrow  in  the  string,  he  drew  the  bow.  The  arrow 
was  within  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of  Master  Sweepstakes' 
mark,  which  was  the  nearest  that  had  yet  been  hit.  Hal 
seized  his  second  arrow  —  "If  I  have  any  luck,"  said  he  — 
But  just  as  he  pronounced  the  word  luck,  and  as  he  bent  his 
bow,  the  string  broke  in  two,  and  the  bow  fell  from  his 
hands. 

"  There,  it 's  all  over  with  you,"  cried  Master  Sweepstakes, 
with  a  triumphant  laugh. 

"  Here 's  my  bow  for  him,  and  welcome,"  said  Ben. 

"  No,  no,  sir ;  that  is  not  fair ;  that 's  against  the  regula- 
tion. You  may  shoot  with  your  own  bow,  if  you  choose  it, 
or  you  may  not,  just  as  you  think  proper;  but  you  must 
not  lend  it,  sir." 

It  was  now  Ben's  turn  to  make  his  trial.  His  first  arrow 
was  not  successful.  His  second  was  exactly  as  near  as 
Hal's  first. 

"  You  have  but  one  more,"  said  Master  Sweepstakes  ;  — 
"  now  for  it !" 

Ben,  before  he  ventured  his  last  arrow,  prudently  exam- 
ined the  string  of  his  bow ;  and  as  he  pulled  it  to  try  its 
strength,  it  cracked. 


424  WASTE     NOT,     WANT     NOT. 

Master  Sweepstakes  clapped  his  hands  with  loud  exulta- 
tions, and  exulting  laughter.  But  his  laughter  ceased  when 
our  provident  hero  calmly  drew  from  his  pocket  an  excel- 
lent piece  of  whip-cord. 

"The  everlasting. whip-cord,  I  declare  I"  exclaimed  Hal^ 
when  he  saw  that  it  was  the  very  same  that  had  tied  up  the 
parcel. 

"Yes,"  said  Ben,  as  he  fastened  it  to  his  bow,  "I  put  it 
into  my  pocket  to-day  on  purpose,  because  I  thought  I  might 
happen  to  want  it." 

He  drew  his  bow  the  third  and  last  time. 

"  0,  papa,"  cried  little  Patty,  as  his  arrow  hit  the  mark, 
"it's  the  nearest;  is  not  it  the  nearest?" 

Master  Sweepstakes,  with  anxiety,  examined  the  hit. 
There  could  be  no  doubt.  Ben  was  victorious !  The  bow, 
the  prize  bow,  was  now  delivered  to  him ;  and  Hal,  as  he 
looked  at  the  whip-cord,  exclaimed,  "  How  lucky  this  whip- 
cord has  been  to  you,  Ben  I" 

"  It  is  lucky,  perhaps  you  mean,  that  he  took  care  of  it," 
said  Mr.  Gresham. 

"  Ay,"  said  Hal,  "  very  true ;  he  might  we"!  say,  '  Waste 
not,  want  not :'  it  is  a  good  thing  to  have  two  strings  to 
one's  bow." 


FORGIVE    AND   FORGET. 


In  the  neighbourhood  of  a  sea-port  town  in  the  west  cf 
England,  there  lived  a  gardener,  who  had  one  son,  called 
Maurice,  of  whom  he  was  very  fond.  One  day  his  father 
sent  him  to  the  neighbouring  town,  to  purchase  some  gar- 
den-seeds for  him.  When  Maurice  got  to  the  seed-shop,  it 
was  full  of  people,  who  were  all  impatient  to  be  served ; 
first  a  great  tall  man,  and  next  a  great  fat  woman,  pushed 
before  him,  and  he  stood  quietly  beside  the  counter,  waiting 
till  somebody  should  be  at  leisure  to  attend  him.  At  length, 
when  all  the  other  people  in  the  shop  had  got  what  they 
wanted,  the  shopman  turned  to  Maurice  —  "  And  what  do 
you  want,  my  patient  little  fellow  V  said  he. 

"I  want  all  these  seeds  for  my  father,"  said  Maurice, 
putting  a  list  of  seeds  into  the  shopman's  hand ;  "  and  I 
have  brought  money  to  pay  for  them  all." 

The  seedsman  looked  out  all  the  seeds  that  Maurico 
wanted,  and  packed  them  up  in  a  paper :  he  was  folding  up 
some  painted  lady-peas,  when,  from  a  door  at  the  back  of 
the  shop,  there  came  in  a  square,  rough-faced  man,  who 
exclaimed,  the  moment  he  came  in,  "  Are  the  seeds  I  ordered 
ready  ?  The  wind 's  fair  —  they  ought  to  have  been  aboard 
yesterday.  And  my  china  jar,  is  it  packed  up  and  directed  ? 
where  is  it  ?" 

"  It  is  up  there  on  the  shelf  over  your  head,  sir,"  answered 
the  seedsman,  "  it  is  very  safe,  you  see,  but  we  have  not  had 

( 425 ) 


426      FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

time  to  pack  it  yet  —  it  shall  be  done  to-day :  and  we  will 
get  the  seeds  for  you,  sir,  immediately." 

"  Immediately  !  —  then  stir  about  it —  the  seeds  will  not 
pack  themselves  up  —  make  haste,  pray." 

"  Immediately,  sir,  as  soon  as  I  have  done  up  the  parcel 
for  this  little  boy." 

"  What  signifies  the  parcel  for  this  little  boy  ?  he  can 
wait,  and  I  cannot — wind  and  tide  wait  for  no  man.  Here, 
my  good  lad,  take  your  parcel  and  sheer  off,"  said  the  impa- 
tient man ;  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  took  up  the  parcel  of  seeds 
from  the  counter,  as  the  shopman  stooped  to  look  for  a  sheet 
of  thick  brown  paper  and  packthread  to  tie  it  up. 

The  parcel  was  but  loosely  folded  up,  and  as  the  impa- 
tient man  lifted  it,  the  weight  of  the  peas  which  were  with- 
inside  of  it  burst  the  paper,  and  all  the  seeds  fell  out  upon 
the  floor,  while  Maurice  in  vain  held  his  hand  to  catch  them. 
The  peas  rolled  to  all  parts  of  the  shop :  the  impatient  man 
swore  at  them  ;  but  Maurice,  without  being  out  of  humour, 
set  about  collecting  them  as  fast  as  possible.  While  he  was 
busied  in  this  manner,  the  man  got  what  seeds  he  wanted, 
and  as  he  was  talking  about  them,  a  sailor  came  into  the 
shop,  and  said,  "  Captain,  the  wind  has  changed  within 
these  five  minutes,  and  it  looks  as  if  we  should  have  ugly 
weather." 

"  Well,vI  *tn  glad  of  it,"  replied  the  rough-faced  man,  who 
was  the  captain  of  a  ship.  "I'm  glad  to  have  a  day 
longer  to  stay  ashore,  for  I've  business  enough  on  my 
hands." 

The  captain  pushed  forward  towards  the  shop-door. 
Maurice,  who  was  kneeling  on  the  floor,  picking  up  his 
seeds,  saw  that  the  captain's  foot  was  entangled  in  some 
packthread,  which  hung  down  from  the  shelf  on  which  the 
china  jar  stood.  Maurice  saw  that  if  the  captain  took  one 
more  step  forward,  he  must  pull  the  string,  so  that  it  would 
throw  down  the  jar,  round  the  bottom  of  which  the  pack- 
thread was  entangled.     He  immediately  caught  hold  of  the 


FORGIVE  AND  FORGET.      427 

Captain  s  leg,  and  stopped  him  —  "  Stay!  stand  still,  sir!" 
said  he,  "or  you  will  break  your  china  jar." 

The  man  stood  still,  looked,  and  saw  how  the  packthread 
had  caught  in  his  shoebuckle,  and  how  it  was  near  dragging 
down  his  beautiful  china  jar ;  "  I  am  really  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  my  little  fellow,"  said  he  ;  "you  have  saved 
my  jar,  which  I  would  not  have  broken  for  ten  guineas  ;  for 
it  is  for  my  wife,  and  I  've  brought  it  safe  from  abroad  many 
a  league  ;  it  would  have  been  a  pity  if  I  had  broken  it  just 
when  it  was  safe  landed.  I  am  really  much  obliged  to  you, 
my  little  fellow ;  this  was  returning  good  for  evil.  I  am 
sorry  I  threw  down  your  seeds,  as  you  are  such  a  good- 
natured,  forgiving  boy.  Be  so  kind,"  continued  he,  turning 
to  the  shopman,  "  as  to  reach  down  that  china  jar  for  me." 

The  shopman  lifted  down  the  jar  very  carefully,  and  the 
captain  took  off  the  cover,  and  pulled  out  some  tulip-roots ; 
"  You  seem,  by  the  quantity  of  seeds  you  have  got,  to 
belong  to  a  gardener.  Are  you  fond  of  gardening  ?"  said 
he  to  Maurice. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Maurice,  "  very  fond  of  it ;  for  my 
father  is  a  gardener,  and  he  lets  me  help  at  his  work,  and 
he  has  given  me  a  little  garden  of  my  own." 

"  Then  here  are  a  couple  of  tulip-roots  for  you,  and  if  you 
take  care  of  them,  I  '11  promise  you  that  you  will  have  the 
finest  tulips  in  England  in  your  little  garden.  These  tulips 
were  given  to  me  by  a  Dutch  merchant,  who  told  me  that 
they  were  some  of  the  rarest  and  finest  in  Holland.  They 
will  prosper  with  you,  I  'm  sure,  wind  and  weather  permit 
ting." 

Maurice  thanked  the  gentleman,  and  returned  home  eager 
to  show  his  precious  tulip-roots  to  his  father,  and  to  a  com- 
panion of  his,  the  son  of  a  nursery-man,  who  lived  near 
lim.     Arthur  was  the  name  of  the  nursery-man's  son. 

Tho  first  thing  Maurice  did,  after  showing  his  tulip-roots 
to  his  father,  was  to  run  to  Arthur's  garden,  in  search  of 
him.     Their  gardens  were  separated  only  by  a  low  wall  of 


428     FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

loose  stones :  —  "  Arthur  !  Arthur !  where  are  you  ?  Are 
you  in  your  garden  ?  I  want  you."  But  Arthur  marie  no 
answer,  and  did  not,  as  usual,  come  running  to  meet  his 
friend.  "  I  know  where  you  are,"  continued  Maurice,  "  and 
I  am  coming  to  you  as  fast  as  the  raspberry  bushes  will  le> 
me.  I  have  good  news  for  you  —  something  you'll  bf 
delighted  to  see,  Arthur !  —  Ha !  but  here  is  something  thai 
I  am  not  delighted  to  see,  I  am  sure,"  said  poor  Maurice, 
who,  when  he  had  got  through  the  raspberry  bushes,  and 
had  come  in  sight  of  his  own  garden,  beheld  his  bell-glass 
—  his  beloved  bell-glass,  under  which  his  cucumbers  were 
growing  so  finely  —  his  only  bell-glass  —  broken  to  pieces! 
"  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  Arthur,  who  stood  leaning  upon 
his  spade  in  his  own  garden :  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  be 
very  angry  with  me." 

"  "Why,  was  it  you,  Arthur,  broke  my  bell-glass  ?  0,  how 
could  you  do  so  !" 

"  I  was  throwing  weeds  and  rubbish  over  the  wall,  and 
by  accident  a  great  lump  of  couch-grass,  with  stones  hang- 
ing to  the  roots,  fell  upon  your  bell-glass,  and  broke  it  as 
you  see." 

Maurice  lifted  up  the  lump  of  couch-grass,  which  had 
fallen  through  the  broken  glass  upon  his  cucumbers,  and  ho 
looked  at  his  cucumbers  for  a  moment  in  silence.  "  0,  my 
poor  cucumbers!  you  must  all  die  now ;  I  shall  see  all  your 
yellow  flowers  withered  to-morrow :  but  it  is'  done,  and  if 
cannot  be  helped  ;  so,  Arthur,  let 's  say  no  more  about  it." 
"  You  are  very  good ;  I  thought  you  would  have  been 
angry.  I  am  sure  I  should  have  been  exceedirgly  angry 
if  you  had  broken  the  glass,  if  it  had  been  mine  " 

"  0,  forgive  and  forget,  as  my  father  always  sajn  —  that's 
the  best  way.  Look  what  I  havb  got  for  you."  Then  he 
told  Arthur  the  story  of  the  captain  of  the  ship  and  the 
china  jar;  of  the  seeds  having  been  thrown  down  and  of 
tlie  fine  tulip-roots  which  had  been  given  to  him  ;  anA  Mau- 
rice concluded  by  offering  one  of  the  precious  roots  to  A_r 


FORGIVE  AND  FORGET.     429 

thur,  who  thanked  him  with  great  joy,  and  repeatedly  said, 
"  How  good  you  were,  not  to  be  angry  with  me  for  breaking 
your  bell-glass :  I  am  much  more  sorry  for  it  than  if  you 
had  been  in  a  passion  with  me  V 

Arthur  now  went  to  plant  his  tulip-root ;  and  Maurice 
looked  at  the  beds  which  his  companion  had  been  digging, 
and  at  all  the  things  which  were  coming  up  in  his  garden. 

"  I  do  n't  know  how  it  is,"  said  Arthur,  "  but  you  always 
seem  as  glad  to  see  the  things  in  my  garden  coming  up  and 
doing  well  as  if  they  were  all  your  own.  I  am  much  hap- 
pier since  my  father  came  to  live  here,  and  since  you  and  I 
have  been  allowed,  to  work  and  to  play  together,  than  I  ever 
was  before ;  for  you  must  know,  before  we  came  to  live 
here,  I  had  a  cousin  in  the  house  with  me,  who  used  to 
plague  me :  he  was  not  nearly  so  good-natured  as  you  are ; 
he  never  took  pleasure  in  looking  at  my  garden,  or  at  any- 
thing that  I  did,  that  was  well  done ;  and  he  never  gave  me 
a  snare  of  anything  that  he  had  ;  and  so  I  did  not  like  him  ; 
how  could  I?  But  I  believe  that  hating  people  makes  us 
unhappy ;  for  I  know  I  never  was  happy  when  I  was  quar- 
relling with  him  ;  and  I  am  always  happy  with  you,  Mau- 
rice ;  you  know  we  never  quarrel." 

It  would  be  well  for  all  the  world,  if  they  could  be  con- 
vinced, like  Arthur,  that  to  live  in  friendship  is  better  than 
to  quarrel:  it  would  be  well  for  all  the  world,  if  they  fol- 
lowed Maurice's  maxim  of  "  Forgive  and  forget,"  when  they 
receive,  or  when  they  imagine  that  they  receive,  an  injury. 

Arthur's  father,  Mr.  Oakley,  the  nursery-man,  was  apt  to 
take  offence  at  trifles  ;  and  when  he  thought  that  any  of  his 
neighbours  disobliged  him,  he  was  too  proud  to  ask  them 
to  explain  their  conduct ;  therefore  he  was  often  mistaken 
in  his  judgment  of  them.  He  thought  that  it  showed  spirit 
to  remember  and  to  resent  an  injury ;  and  therefore,  though 
he  was  not  an  ill-natured  man,  he  was  sometimes  led,  by 
this  mistaken  idea  of  spirit,  to  do  ill-natured  things:  "A 
warm  friend,  and  a  bitter  enemy,"  was  one  of  his  maxims, 


430     FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

and  he  had  more  enemies  than  friends.  He  was  not  very 
rich,  but  he  was  proud,  and  his  favourite  proverb  was, 
"  Better  live  in  spite  than  in  pity." 

When  first  he  settled  near  Mr.  Grant  the  gardener,  he  felt 
inclined  to  dislike  him,  because  he  was  told,  that  Mr.  Grant 
was  a  Scotchman,  and  he  had  a  prejudice  against  Scotchmen, 
all  of  whom  he  believed  to  be  cunning  and  avaricious, 
because  he  had  once  been  overreached  by  a  Scotch  pedler. 
Grant's  friendly  manners,  in  some  degree,  conquered  this 
prepossession  ;  but  still  he  secretly  suspected  that  this  civi- 
lity, as  he  said,  was  all  a  show,  and  that  he  was  not,  nor  could 
not,  being  a  Scotchman,  be  such  a  hearty  friend  as  a  true-born 
Englishman. 

Grant  had  some  remarkably  fine  raspberries.  The  fruit 
was  so  large  as  to  be  quite  a  curiosity.  When  it  was  in 
season,  many  strangers  came  from  the  neighbouring  town, 
which  was  a  sea-bathing  place,  to  look  at  these  raspberries, 
which  obtained  the  name  of  Brobdignag  raspberries.  "  How 
came  you,  pray,  neighbour  Grant,  if  a  man  may  ask,  by 
these  wonderful  fine  raspberries  V  said  Mr.  Oakly  one  even- 
ing, to  the  gardener. 

"That's  a  secret,"  replied  Grant,  with  an  arch  smile. 

"  0,  in  case  it 's  a  secret,  I  've  no  more  to  say,  for  I  never 
meddle  with  any  man's  secrets  that  he  does  not  choose  to 
trust  me  with.  But  I  wish,  neighbour  Grant,  you  would 
put  down  that  book.  You  are  always  poring  ovei  some 
book  or  another  when  a  man  comes  to  see  you,  which  is 
not,  according  to  my  notions  (being  a  rlain,  untamed  Eng- 
lishman bred  and  born),  so  civil  and  neighbourly  as  might 
be." 

Mr.  Grant  hastily  shut  his  book,  but  remarked,  with  a 
shrewd  glance  at  his  son,  that  it  was  in  that  book  he  found 
his  Brobdignag  raspberries. 

"  You  are  pleased  to  be  pleasant  upon  them  that  have  not 
the  luck  to  be  as  book-lamed  as  yourself,  Mr.  Grant ;  but  I 
take  it,  being  only  a  plain-spoken  Englishman,  as  I  observed 


FORGIVE  AND  FORGET.     431 

afore,  that  one  is  to  the  full  as  like  to  find  a  raspberry  in 
one's  garden,  as  in  one's  book,  Mr.  Grant." 

Grant,  observing  that  his  neighbour  spoke  rather  in  a 
surly  tone,  did  not  contradict  him :  being  well  versed  in  the 
Bible,  he  knew  that  "  A  soft  word  turneth  away  wrath ;" 
and  he  answered,  in  a  good-humoured  voice,  "  I  hear,  neigh- 
bour Oakly,  you  are  likely  to  make  a  great  deal  of  money 
of  your  nursery  this  year.  Here 's  to  the  health  of  you  and 
yours,  not  forgetting  the  seedling  larch,  which  I  see  are 
coming  on  finely." 

c*  Thank  ye,  neighbour,  kindly ;  the  larch  are  coming  on 
tolerably  well,  that  'a  certain ;  and  here  's  to  your  good 
health,  Mr.  Grant,  you  and  youjs,  not  forgetting  your  what 
d'ye  call  'em,  raspberries;"  —  (Drinks) — and,  after  a 
pause,  resumes  —  "  I  'm  not  apt  to  be  a  beggar,  neighbour, 
but  if  you  could  give  me — " 

Here  Mr.  Oakly  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  some 
strangers,  and  he  did  not  finish  making  his  request.  Mr. 
Oakly  was  not,  as  he  said  of  himself,  apt  to  ask  favours, 
and  nothing  but  Grant's  cordiality  could  have  conquered 
his  prejudices  so  far  as  to  tempt  him  to  ask  a  favour  from 
a  Scotchman.  He  was  going  to  ask  for  some  of  the  Brob- 
dignag  raspberry-plants.  The  next  day  the  thought  of  the 
raspberry  plants  recurred  to  his  memory  ;  but  being  a  bash- 
ful man,  he  did  not  like  to  go  himself  on  purpose  to  make 
his  petition,  and  he  desired  his  wife,  who  was  just  setting 
out  to  market,  to  call  at  Grant's  gate,  and,  if  he  was  at 
work  in  his  garden,  to  ask  him  for  a  few  plants  of  his  rasp- 
berries. 

The  answer  which  Oakly's  wife  b* ought  to  him  was,  that 
Mr.  Grant  had  not  a  raspberry-plant  in  the  world  to  give 
him,  and  that  if  he  had  ever  so  many,  he  would  not  give 
one  away,  except  to  his  own  son.  Oakly  flew  into  a  passion 
when  he  received  such  a  message, — declared  it  was  just 
such  a  mean  shabby  trick  as  might  have  been  expe3ted  from 
a  Scotchman  —  called  himself  a  booby,  a  dupe,  ar  I  a  block- 


432     FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

head,  for  ever  having  trusted  to  the  civil  speeches  of  a 
Scotchman  —  swore  that  he  would  die  in  the  parish  work- 
house before  he  would  ever  ask  another  favour,  be  it  nevei 
so  small,  from  a  Scotchman  —  related  for  the  hundredth 
time  to  his  wife  the  way  in  which  he  had  been  taken  in  by 
the  Scotch  pedler  ten  years  ago,  and  concluded  by  forswear- 
ing all  further  intercourse  with  Mr.  Grant,  and  all  belong 
ing  to  him. 

"  Son  Arthur,"  said  he,  addressing  himself  to  the  boy, 
who  just  then  came  in  from  work,  "  son  Arthur,  do  you  hear 
me?  let  me  never  again  see  you  with  Grant's  son." 

"  With  Maurice,  father  f" 

"  With  Maurice  Grant,  I  say.  I  forbid  you  from  this  day 
and  hour  forward  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him." 

"0,  why,  dear  father?" 

"  Ask  me  no  questions,  but  do  as  I  bid  you." 

Arthur  burst  out  a-crying,  and  only  said,  "  Yes,  father, 
I  '11  do  as  you  bid  me,  to  be  sure." 

"Why,  now,  what  does  the  boy  cry  for?  Is  there  no 
other  boy,  simpleton,  think  you,  to  play  with,  but  this 
Scotchman's  son  ?  I  ''11  find  out  another  playfellow  for  ye, 
child,  if  that  be  all." 

"  That 's  not  all,  father,"  said  Arthur,  trying  to  stop  him- 
self from  sobbing ;  "  but  the  thing  is,  I  shall  never  have 
such  another  playfellow,  I  shall  never  have  such  another 
friend,  as  Maurice  Grant." 

"  Ah,  poor  fool !"  said  his  father,  pressing  his  son's  head 
to  him,  "  thee  be'st  just  such  another  as  thy  father  —  ready 
to  be  taken  in  by  a  fair  word  or  so.  But  when  you  've  lived 
as  long  as  I  have,  you  '11  find  that  friends  are  not  as  plenty 
as  blackberries,  and  do  n't  grow  upon  every  bush." 

"No,  indeed,  I  don't  think  they  do,"  said  Arthur:  "I 
never  had  a  friend  before,  and  I  shall  never  have  such  ano- 
ther as  Maurice  Grant." 

"Like  father  like  son  —  you  may  think  yourself  well  off 
to  have  done  with  him." 


FORGIVE  AND  FORGET.     433 

'Done  with  him  !  0,  father,  and  shall  I  never  go  again 
o  work  in  his  garden,  and  may  not  he  come  to  mine?" 

"No,"  replied  Oakly,  sturdily;  "his  father  has  used  me 
uncivil,  and  no  man  shall  use  me  uncivil  twice.  I  say,  no. 
Wife,  sweep  up  this  hearth.  Boy,  do  n't  take  on  like  a  fool, 
but  eat  thy  bacon  and  greens,  and  let 's  hear  no  more  of 
Maurice  Grant." 

Arthur  promised  to  obey  his  father ;  he  only  begged  that 
he  might  once  more  speak  to  Maurice,  and  tell  him  that  it 
was  by  his  father's  orders  he  acted.  This  request  was 
granted ;  but  when  Arthur  further  begged  to  know  what 
reason  he  might  give  for  this  separation,  his  father  refused 
to  tell  his  reasons. 

The  two  friends  took  leave  of  one  another  very  sorrow- 
fully. 

Mr.  Grant,  when  he  heard  of  all  this,  endeavoured  to  dis- 
cover what  could  have  offended  his  neighbour ;  but  all 
explanation  was  prevented  by  the  obstinate  silence  of 
Oakly. 

Now  the  message  which  Grant  really  sent  about  the 
Brobdignag  raspberries  was  somewhat  different  from  that 
which  Mr.  Oakly  received.  The  message  was,  that  the 
raspberries  were  not  Mr.  Grant's,  that  therefore  he  had  no 
right  to  give  them  away ;  that  they  belonged  to  his  son 
Maurice,  and  that  this  was  not  the  right  time  of  the  year 
for  planting  them.  This  message  had  been  unluckily  mis- 
understood. Grant  gave  his  answer  to  his  wife  ;  she  to  a 
Welsh  servant-girl,  who  did  not  perfectly  comprehend  her 
mistress's  broad  Scotch ;  and  she,  in  her  turn,  could  not 
make  herself  intelligible  to  Mrs.  Oakly,  who  hated  the 
Welsh  accent,  and  whone  attention,  when  the  servant-girl 
delivered  the  message,  was  principally  engrossed  by  the 
management  of  her  own  horse.  The  horse  on  which  Mrs. 
Oakly  rode  this  day,  being  ill-broken,  would  not  stand  still 
quietly  at  the  gate,  and  she  was  extremely  impatient  to 
28 


434      FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

receive  her  answer,  and  to  ride  on  to  market.     On   such 
slight  things  do  the  quarrels  of  neighbours  often  depend. 

Oakly,  when  he  had  once  resolved  to  dislike  his  neigh- 
bour Grant,  could  not  long  remain  without  finding  fresh 
causes  of  complaint.  There  was  in  Grant's  garden  a  plum- 
tree,  which  was  planted  close  to  the  loose  stone  wall  that 
divided  the  garden  from  the  nursery.  The  soil  in  which 
the  plum-tree  was  planted  happened  not  to  be  quite  so  good 
as  that  which  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  wall,  and  the 
plum-tree  had  forced  its  way  through  the  wall,  and  gradu 
ally  had  taken  possession  of  the  ground  which  it  liked  best 
Oakly  thought  the  plum-tree,  as  it  belonged  to  Mr.  Grant, 
had  no  right  to  make  its  appearance  on  his  ground :  an 
attorney  told  him  that  he  might  oblige  Grant  to  cut  it  down ; 
but  Mr.  Grant  refused  to  cut  down  his  plum-tree  at  the 
attorney's  desire ;  and  the  attorney  persuaded  Oakly  to  go 
to  law  about  the  business,  and  the  lawsuit  went  on  for  some 
months.  The  attorney,  at  the  end  of  this  time,  came  to 
Oakly  with  a  demand  for  money  to  carry  on  his  suit,  assur- 
ing him  that  in  a  short  time  it  would  be  determined  in  his 
favour.  Oakly  paid  his  attorney  ten  golden  guineas, 
remarked  that  it  was  a  great  sum  for  him  to  pay,  and  that 
nothing  but  the  love  of  justice  could  make  him  persevere  in 
this  lawsuit  about  a  bit  of  ground,  "  which,  after  all,"  said 
he,  "  is  not  worth  twopence.  The  plum-tree  does  me  little 
or  no  damage,  but  I  don't  like  to  be  imposed  upon  by  a 
Scotchman." 

The  attorney  saw  and  took  advantage  of  Oakly's  preju- 
dice against  the  natives  of  Scotland ;  and  he  persuaded  him 
that,  to  show  the  spirit  of  a  true-born  Englishman,  it  was 
necessary,  whatever  it  might  cost  him,  to  persist  in  this 
lawsuit. 

It  was  soon  after  this  conversation  with  the  attorney,  that 
Mr.  Oakly  walked  with  resolute  steps  towards  the  plum- 
tree,  saying  to  himself,  "If  it  cost  me  a  hundred  pound,  I 
will  not  let  this  cunning  Scotchman  get  the  better  of  me." 


FORGIVE  AND  FORGET.      435 

Arthur  interrupted  his  father's  revery  by  pointing  to  a 
book  and  some  young  plants,  which  lay  upon  the  wall.  "  1 
faucy,  father,"  said  he,  "  those  things  are  for  you,  for  there 
is  a  little  note  directed  to  you  in  Maurice's  handwriting; 
shall  I  bring  it  to  you  V* 

"Yes,  let  me  read  it,  child,  since  I  must." 

It  contained  these  words :  — 

Dear  Mr.  Oakly, 

"  I  do  n't  know  why  you  have  quarrelled  with  us  ;  I  am 
very  sorry  for  it.  But,  though  you  are  angry  with  me,  I 
am  not  angry  with  you.  I  hope  you  will  not  refuse  some 
of  my  Brobdignag  raspberry  plants,  which  you  asked  for  a 
great  while  ago,  when  we  were  all  good  friends.  It  was  not 
the  right  time  of  year  to  plant  them  then,  which  was  the 
reason  they  were  not  sent  to  you  :  but  it  is  just  the  right 
time  to  plant  them  now  ;  and  I  send  you  the  book,  in  which 
you  will  find  the  reason  why  we  always  put  sea-weed  ashes 
about  their  roots ;  and  I  have  got  some  sea-weed  ashes  for 
you.  You  will  find  the  ashes  in  the  flowerpot  upon  the  wall. 
I  have  never  spoken  to  Arthur,  nor  he  to  me,  since  you  bid 
us  not.  So,  wishing  your  Brobdignag  raspberries  may  turn 
out  as  well  as  ours,  and  longing  to  be  all  friends  again,  I 
am,  with  love  to  dear  Arthur  and  self, 

"  Your  affectionate  neighbour"^  son, 

Maurice  Grant. 

"  P.  S.  It  is  now  four  months  since  the  quarrel  began,  and 
that  is  a  very  long  while." 

A  great  part  of  the  effect  of  this  letter  was  lost  upon 
Oakly,  because  he  was  not  very  expert  at  reading  writing, 
and  it  cost  him  much  trouble  to  spell  it  and  put  it  together. 
However,  he  seemed  touched  by  it,  and  said,  "  I  believe  this 
Maurice  loves  you  well  enough,  Arthur,  and  he  seems  a 
good  sort  of  boy:  but,  as  to  the  raspberries,  I  believe  al) 
that  he  says  about  them  is  but  an  excuse ;  and,  at  any  rate, 
as  I  could  not  get  'em  when  I  ask*  d  for  them,  I  '11  not  have 


436      FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

them  now.  Do  you  hear  me,  I  say,  Arthur?  What  are  you 
reading  there?" 

Arthur  was  reading  the  page  that  was  doubled  down  in 
the  book  which  Maurice  had  left  along  with  the  raspberry- 
plants  upon  the  wall.     Arthur  read  aloud  as  follows:  — 

"  There  is  a  sort  of  strawberry  cultivated  at  Jersey,  which 
is  almost  covered  with  sea-weed  in  the  winter,  in  like  man- 
ner as  many  plants  in  England  are  with  litter  from  the  sta- 
ble. These  strawberries  are  usually  of  the  largeness  of  a 
middle-sized  apricot,  and  the  flavour  is  particularly  grateful. 
In  Jersey  and  Guernsey,  situate  scarcely  one  degree  farther 
south  than  Cornwall,  all  kinds  of  fruit,  pulse,  and  vegeta- 
bles are  produced  in  their  seasons  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks 
sooner  than  in  England,  even  on  the  southern  shores ;  and 
snow  will  scarcely  remain  twenty-four  hours  on  the  earth. 
Although  this  may  be  attributed  to  these  Islands  being  sur- 
rounded with  a  salt,  and  consequently  a  moist,  atmosphere, 
yet  the  ashes  (sea-weed  ashes)  made  use  of  as  manure  may 
also  have  their  portion  of  influence."*  —  Monthly  Magazine, 
Dec.  1798,  p.  421. 

"  And  here,"  continued  Arthur,  "  is  something  written 
with  a  pencil,  on  a  slip  of  paper,  and  it  is  Maurice's  writ- 
ing.    I  will  read  it  to  you." 

"  When  I  read  in  this  book  what  is  said  about  the  straw- 
berries growing  as  large  as  apricots,  after  they  had  been 
covered  over  with  sea-weed,  I  thought  that  perhaps  sea-weed 
ashes  might  be  good  for  my  father's  raspberries ;  and  I 
asked  him  if  he  would  give  me  leave  to  try  them.  He  gave 
me  leave,  and  I  went  directly  and  gathered  together  some 
sea-weed  that  had  been  cast  m  shore ;  and  I  dried  it,  and 
burned  it,  and  then  I  manured  the  raspberries  with  it,  and 
the  year  afterward  the  raspberries  grew  to  the  size  that  you 
have  seen.     Now  the  reason  I  tell  you  this  is  —  first,  that 

*  It  is  necessary  to  observe  that  this  experiment  has  never  been 
•ctuall}  tried  upon  raspberries. 


FORGIVE     AND     FORGET.  437 

you  may  know  how  to  manage  your  raspberries  ;  and  next, 
because  I  remember  you  looked  very  grave,  as  if  you  were 
not  pleased  with  my  father,  Mr.  Grant,  when  he  told  you 
that  the  way  by  which  he  came  by  his  Brobdignag  rasp- 
berries was  a  secret.  Perhaps  this  was  the  thing  that  made 
you  so  angry  with  us  all ;  for  you  never  have  come  to  see 
father  since  that  evening.  Now  I  have  told  you  all  I  know  ; 
and  so  I  hope  you  will  not  be  angry  with  us  any  longer." 

Mr.  Oakly  was  much  pleased  by  this  openness,  and  said, 
"Why,  now,  Arthur,  this  is  something  like,  this  is  telling 
one  the  thing  one  wants  to  know,  without  fine  speeches. 
This  is  like  an  Englishman  more  than  a  Scotchman  —  Pray, 
Arthur,  do  you  know  whether  your  friend  Maurice  was  born 
in  England  or  in  Scotland?" 

"No,  indeed,  sir,  I  don't  know  —  I  never  asked  —  I  did 
not  think  it  signified  —  All  I  know  is,  that,  wherever  he 
was  born,  he  is  very  good.  Look,  father,  my  tulip  is  blow- 
ing." 

"  Upon  my  word,  this  will  be  a  beautiful  tulip  I" 

"  It  was  given  to  me  by  Maurice." 

"And  did  you  give  him  nothing  for  it?" 

"  Nothing  in  the  world ;  and  he  gave  it  to  me  just  at  a 
time  when  he  had  good  cause  to  be  very  angry  with  me,  just 
when  I  had  broken  his  bell-glass." 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  to  let  you  play  together  again," 
said  Arthur's  father. 

"0,  if  you  would,"  cried  Arthur,  clapping  his  hands, 
"  how  happy  we  should  be  !  Do  you  know,  father,  I  have 
often  sat  for  an  hour  at  a  time  up  in  that  crab-tree,  looking 
at  Maurice  at  work  in  his  garden,  and  wishing  that  I  was 
at  work  with  him  ?  My  garden,  look  ye,  father,  is  not  nearly 
in  such  good  order  as  it  used  to  be ;  but  everything  would 
go  right  again  if — " 

Here  Arthur  was  interrupted  by  the  attorney,  who  came 
to  ask  Mr.  Oakly  some  question  about  the  law-suit  concern- 
ing the  plum-tree.     Oakly  showed   him  Maurice's  letter; 


438     FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

and  to  Arthur's  extreme  astonishment,  the  attorney  had  ni* 
sooner  read  it  than  he  exclaimed,  "  What  an  artful  little 
gentleman  this  is !  I  never,  in  the  course  of  all  my  prac- 
tice, met  with  anything  better.  Why  this  is  the  most  cun- 
ning letter  I  ever  read." 

"Where's  the  cunning?"  said  Oakly,  and  he  put  on  hia 
spectacles. 

"My  good  sir,  don't  you  see  that  all  this  stuff  about 
Brobdignag  raspberries  is  to  ward  off  your  suit  about  the 
plum-tree?  They  know  —  that  is,  Mr.  Grant,  who  is  sharp 
enough,  knows  —  that  he  will  be  worsted  in  that  suit;  that 
he  must,  in  short,  pay  you  a  good  round  sum  for  damages, 
if  it  goes  on." 

"  Damages  I"  said  Oakly,  staring  round  him  at  the  plum- 
tree  :  "  but  I  do  n't  know  what  you  mean.  I  mean  nothing 
but  what 's  honest.  I  do  n't  mean  to  ask  for  any  good  round 
sum  ;  for  the  plum-tree  has  done  me  no  great  harm  by  com- 
ing into  my  garden  ;  but  only  I  do  n't  choose  it  should  come 
there  without  my  leave." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  attorney;  "I  understand  all  that; 
but  what  I  want  to  make  you,  Mr.  Oakly,  understand,  is, 
that  this  Grant  and  his  son  only  want  to  make  up  matters 
with  you,  and  prevent  the  thing's  coming  to  a  fair  trial,  by 
sending  you,  in  this  underhand  sort  of  way,  a  bribe  of  a  few 
raspberries." 

"A  bribe!"  exclaimed  Oakly;  "I  never  took  a  bribe, 
and  I  never  will ;"  and,  with  sudden  indignation,  he  pulled 
the  raspberry  plants  from  the  ground  in  which  Arthur  was 
planting  them ;  and  he  threw  them  over  the  wall  into 
Grant's  garden. 

Maurice  had  put  his  tulip,  which  was  beginning  to  blow, 
»n  a  flower-pot,  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  in  hopes  that  his 
friend  Arthur  would  see  it  from  day  to  day. 

Alas  !  he  knew  not  in  what  a  dangerous  situation  he  had 
placed  it.  One  of  his  own  Brobdignag  raspberry-plants, 
swung  by  the  angry  arm  of  Oakly,  struck  off  the  head  of 
his  precious  tulip  I 


FORGIVE  AND  FORGET.      439 

Arthur,  who  was  full  of  the  thought  of  convincing  his 
lather  that  the  attorney  was  mistaken  in  his  judgment  of 
poor  Maurice,  did  Lot  observe  the  fall  of  the  tulip. 

The  next  day,  when  Maurice  saw  his  raspberry-plants 
scattered  upon  the  ground,  and  his  favourite  tulip  broken, 
he  was  in  much  astonishment,  and  for  some  moments 
angry ;  but  anger  with  him  never  lasted  long.  He  was 
convinced  that  all  this  must  be  owing  to  some  accident  or 
mistake ;  he  could  not  believe  that  any  one  could  be  so 
malicious  as  to  injure  him  on  purpose  —  "  and  even  if  they 
did  all  this  on  purpose  to  vex  me,"  said  he  to  himself,  "the 
best  thing  I  can  do  is  not  to  let  it  vex  me.  —  Forgive  and 
forget." 

This  temper  of  mind  Maurice  was  more  happy  in  enjoy- 
ing than  he  could  have  been  made,  without  it,  by  the  pos- 
session of  all  the  tulips  in  Holland. 

Tulips  were,  at  this  time,  things  of  great  consequence  in 
the  estimation  of  the  country,  several  miles  round,  where 
Maurice  and  Arthur  lived. 

There  was  a  florist's  feast  to  be  held  at  the  neighbouring 
town,  at  which  a  prize  of  a  handsome  set  of  gardening 
tools  was  to  be  given  to  the  person  who  could  produce  the 
finest  flower  of  its  kind.  A  tulip  was  the  flower  which  was 
thought  the  finest  the  preceding  year,  ai.d  consequently 
numbers  of  people  afterward  endeavoured  to  procure  tulip- 
roots,  in  hopes  of  obtaining  the  prize  this  year. 

Arthur's  tulip  was  beautiful.  As  he  examined  it  from 
day  to  day,  and  every  day  thought  it  improving,  he  longed 
to  thank  his  friend  Maurice  for  it ;  and  he  often  mounted 
into  his  crab-tree,  to  look  into  Maurice's  garden,  in  hopes 
of  seeing  his  tulip  also  in  full  bloom  and  beauty.  He  never 
could  see  it. 

The  day  of  the  florist's  feast  arrived,  and  Oakly  went 
with  his  son,  and  the  fine  tulip,  to  the  place  of  meeting.  It 
was  on  a  spacious  bowling-green.  All  the  flowers,  of  vari- 
ous sorts,  were  ranged  upon  a  terrace  at  the  upper  end  of 


440     FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

the  bowling-green ;  and,  among  all  this  gay  variety,  the 
tulip  which  Maurice  had  given  to  Arthur  appeared  conspi- 
cuously beautiful.  To  the  owner  of  this  tulip  the  prize  was 
adjudged ;  and,  as  the  handsome  garden-tools  were  deli- 
vered to  Arthur,  he  heard  a  well-known  voice  wish  him  joy. 
He  turned,  looked  about  him,  and  saw  his  friend  Maurice. 
"  But,  Maurice,  where  is  your  own  tulip  ?"  said  Mr. 
Oakly ;  "I  thought,  Arthur,  you  told  me  that  he  kept  one 
for  himself." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Maurice  ;  "  but  somebody  (I  suppose  by 
accident)  broke  it." 

"  Somebody !  who  ?"  cried  Arthur  and  Mr.  Oakly  at 
once. 

"  Somebody  who  threw  the  raspberry-plants  back  again 
over  the  wall,"  replied  Maurice. 

"That  was  me  —  that  somebody  was  me,"  said  Oakly. 
"I  scorn  to  deny  it;  but  I  did  not  intend  to  break  your 
tulip,  Maurice." 

" Dear  Maurice,"  said  Arthur — "you  know  I  may  call 
him  dear  Maurice  —  now  you  are  by,  father  —  Here  are  all 
the  garden-tools  ;  take  them,  and  welcome." 

"  Not  one  of  them,"  said  Maurice,  drawing  back. 
"Offer  them  to  the  father  —  offer  them  to  Mr.  Grant," 
whispered  Oakly ;  "  he  '11  take  them,  I  '11  answer  for  it." 

Mr.  Oakly  was  mistaken :  the  father  would  not  accept  of 
the  tools. 

Mr.  Oakly  stood  surprised  —  "  Certainly,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, "  this  cannot  be  such  a  miser  as  I  took  him  for !"  and 
he  walked  immediately  up  to  Grant,  and  bluntly  said  to 
him,  "  Mr.  Grant,  your  son  has  behaved  very  handsome  to 
my  son  ;  and  you  seem  to  be  glad  of  it." 
"  To  be  sure  I  am,"  said  Grant. 

"Which,"  continued  Oakly,  "gives  me  a  better  opinion 
of  you  than  ever  I  had  before  —  I  mean,  than  ever  I  had 
since  the  day  you  sent  me  that  shabby  answer  aboui  those 
foolish,  what  d'  ye  call  'em,  cursed  raspberries." 


FORGIVE  AND  FORGET.      441 

"  What  shabby  answer  1"  said  Grant,  with  surprise  ;  and 
Oakly  repeated  exactly  the  message  which  he  received;  and 
Grant  declared  that  he  never  sent  any  such  message.  He 
repeated  exactly  the  answer  which  he  really  sent,  and  Oakly 
immediately  stretched  out  his  hand  to  him,  saying,  "I 
believe  you :  no  more  need  be  said :  I  'm  only  sorry  I  did 
not  ask  you  about  this  four  months  ago ;  and  so  I  should 
have  done,  if  you  had  not  been  a  Scotchman.  Till  now,  I 
never  rightly  liked  a  Scotchman.  We  may  thank  this  good 
little  fellow,"  continued  he,  turning  to  Maurice,  "  for  our 
coming  at  last  to  a  right  understanding :  there  was  no  hold- 
ing out  against  his  good-nature.  I  'm  sure,  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart,  I  'm  sorry  I  broke  his  tulip.  —  Shake  hands, 
boys ;  I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  Arthur,  look  so  happy  again, 
and  hope  Mr.  Grant  will  forgive — " 

"  0,  forgive  and  forget,"  said  Grant  and  his  son  at  the 
same  moment ;  and  from  this  time  forward,  the  two  fami 
lies  lived  in  friendship  with  each  other. 

Oakly  laughed  at  his  own  folly,  in  having  been  persuaded 
to  go  to  law  about  the  plum-tree  ;  and  he,  in  process  of  time, 
so  completely  conquered  his  early  prejudice  against  Scotch- 
men, that  he  and  Grant  became  partners  in  business.  Mr. 
Grant's  book-laming  and  knowledge  of  arithmetic  he  found 
highly  useful  to  him ;  and  he,  on  his  side,  possessed  a  great 
many  active,  good  qualities,  which  became  serviceable  to 
his  partner. 

The  two  boys  rejoiced  in  this  family  union;  and  Arthur 
often  declared,  that  they  owed  all  their  happiness  to  Mau 
rice's  favourite  maxim,  "  Forgive  and  forget." 


THE    BARKING    OUT; 

OR, 

PARTY  SPIRIT. 


"The  mother  of  mischief,"  says  an  old  proverb,  "is  no 
bigger  than  a  midge's  wing." 

■At  Dr.  Middleton's  school,  there  was  a  great  tall  dunce 
of  the  name  of  Fisher,  who  never  could  be  taught  how  to 
look  out  a  word  in  a  dictionary.  He  used  to  torment  every- 
body with —  "Do  pray  help  me!  —  I  can't  make  out  this 
one  word."  The  person  who  usually  helped  him  in  his  dis- 
tress was  a  very  clever  good-natured  boy,  of  the  name  of  De 
Grey.  De  Grey  had  been  many  years  under  Dr.  Middleton's 
care,  and  by  his  abilities  and  good  conduct  did  him  great 
credit.  The  doctor  certainly  was  both  proud  and  fond  of 
him  ;  but  he  was  so  well  beloved,  or  so  much  esteemed  by 
his  companions,  that  nobody  had  ever  called  him  by  the 
odious  name  of  favourite  until  the  arrival  of  a  new  scholar 
of  the  name  of  Archer. 

Till  Archer  came,  the  ideas  of  favourites  and  parties  were 
almost  unknown  at  Dr.  Middleton's ;  but  he  brought  all 
these  ideas  fresh  from  a  great  public  school,  at  which  he 
had  been  educated  —  at  which  he  had  acquired  a  sufficient 
quantity  of  Greek  and  Latin,  and  a  superabundant  quantity 
of  party-spirit.     His  aim,  the  moment  *hat  he  came  to  a 

(442) 


BARRING     OUT.  443 

112W  school,  wai  to  get  to  the  head  of  it,  or  at  least  to  form 
the  strongest  party.  His  influence,  for  he  was  a  boy  of 
considerable  abilities,  was  quickly  felt,  though  he  had  a 
powerful  rival,  as  he  thought  proper  to  call  him,  in  De 
Grey ;  and  with  Mm  a  rival  was  always  an  enemy.  De 
Grey,  so  far  from  giving  him  any  cause  of  hatred,  treated 
him  with  a  degree  of  cordiality  which  would  probably  have 
had  an  effect  upon  Archer's  mind,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
artifices  of  Fisher. 

It  may  seem  surprising  that  a  great  dunce  should  be  able 
to  work  upon  a  boy  like  Archer,  who  was  called  a  great 
genius:  but  when  genius  is  joined  to  a  violent  temperv 
instead  of  being  united  to  good  sense,  it  is  at  the  mercy 
even  of  dunces. 

Fisher  was  mortally  offended  one  morning  by  De  Grey's 
refusing  to  translate  his  whole  lesson  for  him.  He  went 
over  to  Archer,  who,  considering  him  as  a  partisan  desert- 
ing from  the  enemy,  received  him  with  open  arms,  and 
translated  his  whole  lesson,  without  expressing  much  con- 
tempt for  his  stupidity.  From  this  moment  Fisher  forgot 
all  De  Grey's  former  kindness,  and  considered  only  how  he 
could  in  his  turn  mortify  the  person  whom  he  felt  to  be  so 
much  his  superior. 

De  Grey  and  Archer  were  now  reading  for  a  premium, 
which  was  to  be  given  in  their  class.  Fisher  betted  on 
Archer's  head,  who  had  not  sense  enough  to  despise  the  bet 
of  a  blockhead.  On  the  contrary,  he  suffered  him  to  excite 
the  spirit  of  rivalship  in  its  utmost  fury  by  collecting  the 
bets  of  all  the  school.  So  that  this  premium  now  became 
a  matter  of  the  greatest  consequence;  and  Archer,  instead 
of  taking  the  means  to  secure  a  judgment  in  his  favour,  was 
listening  to  the  opinions  of  all  his  companions.  It  was  a 
prize  which  was  to  be  won  by  his  own  exertions,  but  he  suf- 
fered himself  to  consider  it  as  an  affair  of  chance.  The 
consequence  was,  that  he  trusted  to  chance  —  his  partisans 
lost  their  wagers,  and  he  the  premium  —  and  his  temper. 


444  BARRING     OUT. 

"Mr.  Ar  :her,"  said  Dr.  Middleton,  after  the  grand  affair 
was  decided,  "  you  have  done  all  that  genius  alone  could 
do ;  but  you,  De  Grey,  have  done  all  that  genius  and  indus- 
try united  could  do." 

"Well!"  cried  Archer,  with  affected  gayety,  as  scon  as 
the  doctor  had  left  the  room  —  "  well,  I  am  content  with  my 
sentence  —  Genius  alone  for  me!  industry  for  those  who 
want  it,"  added  he,  with  a  significant  look  at  De  Grey. 

Fisher  applauded  this  as  a  very  spirited  speech,  and,  by 
insinuations  that  Dr.  Middleton  "  always  gave  the  premium 
to  De  Grey,"  and  that  "  those  who  had  lost  their  bets  might 
thank  themselves  for  it  for  being  such  simpletons  as  to  bet 
against  the  favourite,"  he  raised  a  murmur  highly  flatter- 
ing to  Archer  among  some  of  the  most  credulous  boys; 
while  others  loudly  proclaimed  their  belief  in  Dr.  Middle- 
ton's  impartiality.  These  warmly  congratulated  De  Grey. 
At  this  Archer  grew  more  and  more  angry,  and  when  Fisher 
was  proceeding  to  speak  nonsense  for  him,  pushed  forward 
into  the  circle  to  De  Grey,  crying,  "  I  wish,  Mr.  Fisher,  you 
would  let  me  fight  my  own  battles  !" 

"  And  7  wish,"  said  young  Townsend,  who  was  fonder  of 
diversions  than  of  premiums,  or  battles,  or  of  anything  else 
—  "  /  wish  that  we  were  not  to  have  any  battles  ;  after  hav- 
ing worked  like  horses,  don't  set  about  to  fight  like  dogs. 
Come,"  said  he,  tapping  D<  Grey's  shoulder,  "  let  us  see 
your  new  play-house,  do.  It's  a  holyday,  and  let  us  make 
the  most  of  it  —  let  us  have  the  School  for  Scandal,  do; 
and  I  '11  play  Charles  for  you,  and  you,  De  Grey,  shall  be 
my  little  Premium.  Come,  do  open  this  new  play-house  of 
yours  to-night." 

"  Come,  then  !"  said  De  Grey,  and  he  ran  across  the  play- 
ground to  a  waste  building  at  the  farthest  end  of  it,  in 
which,  at  the  earnest  request  of  the  whole  community,  and 
with  the  permission  of  Dr.  Middleton,  he  had,  with  much 
pains  and  ingenuity,  erected  a  theatre. 

"The  new  theatre  is  goirg  to  be  opened)     Follow  the 


BARRING     CUT.  445 

manager!   follow  the   manager !"    echoed  a  multitude   of 
voices. 

"  Follow  the  manager !"  echoed  very  disagreeably  in 
Archer's  ear ;  but  as  he  could  not  be  left  alone,  he  was  also 
obliged  to  follow  the  manager.  The  moment  that  the  door 
was  unlocked,  the  crowd  rushed  in  ;  the  delight  and  wonder 
expressed  at  the  sight  was  great,  and  the  applauses  and 
thanks  which  were  bestowed  upon  the  manager  were  long 
and  loud. 

Archer  at  least  thought  them  long,  for  he  was  impatient 
till  his  voice  could  be  heard.  When  at  length  the  exclama- 
tions had  spent  themselves,  he  walked  across  the  stage  with 
a  knowing  air,  and  looking  round  contemptuously, — 

"  And  is  this  your  famous  play-house  ¥"  cried  he.  "  I 
wish  you  had  any  of  you  seen  the  play-house  /  have  been 
used  to !" 

These  words  made  a  great  and  visible  change  in  the  feel- 
ings and  opinions  of  the  public.  "  Who  would  be  a  servant 
of  the  public  ?  or  who  would  toil  for  popular  applause  V 
—  A  few  words  spoken  in  a  decisive  tone  by  a  new  voice 
operated  as  a  charm,  and  the  play-house  was  in  an  instant 
metamorphosed  in  the  eyes  of  the  spectators.  All  gratitude 
for  the  past  was  forgotten,  and  the  expectation  of  some- 
thing better  justified  to  the  capricious  multitude  their  dis- 
dain of  what  they  had  so  lately  pronounced  to  be  excellent. 

Every  one  now  began  to  criticise.  One  observed,  "  that 
the  green  curtain  was  full  of  holes,  and  would  not  draw  up." 
Another  attacked  the  scenes  —  "  Scenes  !  they  were  not  like 
real  scenes.  Archer  must  know  best,  because  he  was  used 
to  these  things."  So  everybody  crowded  to  hear  something 
of  the  other  play-house.  They  gathered  round  Archer  to 
hear  a  description  of  his  play-house,  and  at  every  sentence 
insulting  comparisons  were  made.  When  he  had  done,  his 
auditors  looked  round  —  sighed  —  and  wished  that  Archer 
had  been  their  manager.  They  turned  from  De  Grey,  as 
from  a  person  who  had  done  them  an  injury.     Some  of  hia 


446  BARRING     OUT. 

friends  —  for  he  had  friends  who  were  not  swayed  by  the 
popular  opinion  —  felt  indignation  at  this  ingratitude,  and 
were  going  to  express  their  feelings ;  but  De  Grey  stopped 
them,  and  begged  that  he  might  speak  for  himself. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  coming  forward  as  soon  as  he  felt 
that  he  had  sufficient  command  of  himself —  "  My  friends, 
I  see  you  are  discontented  with  me  and  my  play-house.  I 
have  done  my  best  to  please  you  ;  but  if  anybody  else  can 
please  you  better,  I  shall  be  glad  of  it.  I  did  not  work  soN 
hard  for  the  glory  of  being  your  manager.  You  have  my 
free  leave  to  tear  down  "  —  here  his  voice  faltered,  but  he 
hurried  on  —  "  you  have  my  free  leave  to  tear  down  all  my 
work  as  fast  as  you  please.  Archer,  shake  hands  first, 
however,  to  show  that  there 's  no  malice  in  the  case." 

Archer,  who  was  touched  by  what  his  rival  said,  and 
stopping  the  hand  of  his  new  partizan  Fisher,  cried,  "  No, 
Fisher!  no!  —  no  pulling  down.  We  can  alter  it.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  ingenuity  in  it,  considering — " 

In  vain  Archer  would  now  have  recalled  the  public  to 
reason.  The  time  for  reason  was  past,  enthusiasm  had 
taken  hold  of  their  minds  —  "  Down  with  it !  Down  with 
it !  Archer  for  ever  !"  cried  Fisher,  and  tore  down  the  cur- 
tain. The  riot  once  begun,  nothing  could  stop  the  little 
mob  till  the  whole  theatre  was  demolished.  The  love  of 
power  prevailed  in  the  mind  of  Archer;  he  was  secretly 
flattered  by  the  zeal  of  his  parti/,  and  he  mistook  their  love 
of  mischief  for  attachment  to  himself.  De  Grey  looked  on 
superior.  "  I  said  I  could  bear  to  see  all  this,  and  I  can," 
«aid  he  ;  "  now  it  is  all  over."  And  now  it  was  all  over,  there 
was  silence.  The  rioters  stood  still  to  take  breath,  and  to 
look  at  what  they  had  done.  There  was  a  blank  space 
before  them. 

In  this  moment  of  silence  there  was  heard  something  like 
a  female  voice.  "Hush!  What  strange  voice  is  that?" 
said  Archer.  Fisher  caught  fast  hold  of  his  arm  —  every- 
bodv  looked  round  to  see  where  the  voice  came  from.     It 


BARRING     OUT.  447 

was  dusk  —  two  window-shutters  at  the  farthest  end  of  the 
building  were  seen  to  move  slowly  inwards.  De  Grey,  and 
in  the  same  instant  Archer,  went  forward,  and  as  the  shut- 
ters opened  there  appeared  through  the  hole  the  dark  face 
and  shrivelled  hands  of  a  very  old  gipsy.  She  did  not 
speak ;  but  she  looked  first  at  one  and  then  at  another.  At 
length  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  De  Grey  —  "Well,  my  good 
woman,  what  do  you  want  with  me  Y* 

"Want  —  nothing  —  withyow,"  said  the  old  woman;  "do 
you  want  nothing  with  me  ?" 

"Nothing,"  said  De  Grey.  Her  eye  immediately  turned 
upon  Archer — "  You  want  something  with  me,"  said  she, 
with  emphasis  —  "I!  what  do  I  want?"  replied  Archer. — 
"No,"  said  she,  changing  her  tone,  "you  want  nothing  — 
nothing  will  you  ever  want,  or  I  am  much  mistaken  in  that 
Jhce." 

In  that  watcli-cliain,  she  should  have  said,  for  her  quick 
eye  had  espied  Archer's  watch-chain.  He  was  the  only  per- 
son in  company  who  had  a  watch,  and  she  therefore  judged 
him  to  be  the  richest. 

"  Had  you  ever  your  fortune  told,  sir,  in  your  life  ?" 

"  Not  I !"  said  he,  looking  at  De  Grey,  as  if  he  was  afraid 
of  his  ridicule  if  he  listened  to  the  gipsy. 

"  Not  you  !  —  no  !  —  for  you  will  make  your  own  fortune, 
and  the  fortune  of  all  that  belong  to  you  !" 

"  There  ;s  good  news  for  my  friends !"  cried  Archer.  — 
"  And  I  'm  one  of  them,  remember  that,"  cried  Fisher.  — 
"  And  I !"  —  "  And  I !"  joined  a  number  of  voices. 

"Good  luck  to  them,"  criei  the  gipsy;  "good  luck  to 
them  all !" 

Then,  as  soon  as  they  had  acquired  suflicient  confidence; 
in  her  good-will,  they  pressed  up  to  the  window.  "  There," 
cried  Townsend,  as  he  chanced  to  stumble  over  the  carpen- 
ter's mitre-box,  which  stood  in  the  way,  "  there  's  a  good 
omen  for  me.  I  've  stumbled  on  the  mitre-box ;  J  shall  cer- 
tainly be  a  bishop." 


448  BARRING     OUT. 

Happy  he  who  had  sixpence,  for  he  bid  fair  to  be  a  judge 
upon  the  bench.  And  happier  he  who  had  a  shilling,  for 
he  was  in  the  high  road  to  be  one  day  upon  the  woolsack, 
lord  high  chancellor  of  England.  No  one  had  half  a  crown, 
or  no  one  would  surely  have  kept  it  in  his  pocket  upon  such 
an  occasion  ;  for  he  might  have  been  an  archbishop,  a  king, 
or  what  he  pleased. 

Fisher,  who,  like  all  weak  people,  was  extremely  credu 
lous,  had  kept  his  post  immoveable  in  the  front  row  all  the 
time,  his  mouth  open,  and  his  stupid  eyes  fixed  on  the  gipsy, 
in  whom  he  felt  implicit  faith. 

Those  who  have  least  confidence  in  their  own  powers,  and 
who  have  least  expectation  from  the  success  of  their  own 
exertions,  are  always  most  disposed  to  trust  in  fortune-tellers 
and  fortune.  They  hope  to  win,  when  they  cannot  earn; 
and  as  they  can  never  be  convinced  by  those  who  speak 
sense,  it  is  no  wonder  they  are  always  persuaded  by  those 
who  talk  nonsense. 

"  I  have  a  question  to  put,"  said  Fisher,  in  a  solemn  tone. 

"  Put  it  then,"  said  Archer ;  "  what  hinders  you  ?" 

"  But  they  will  hear  me,"  said  he,  looking  suspiciously 
at  De  Grey. 

"/shall  not  hear  you,"  said  De  Grey,  "lam  going." 
Everybody  else  drew  back,  and  left  him  to  whisper  his  ques- 
tion in  the  gipsy's  ear. 

"  What  is  become  of  my  Livy?" 

"  Your  sister  Livy,  do  you  mean  ?"  said  the  gipsy. 

"  No,  my  Latin  Livy." 

The  gipsy  paused  for  further  information  —  "It  had  a 
leaf  torn  out  in  the  beginning,  and  I  hate  Dr  Middleton — " 

"Written  in  it?"  interrupted  the  gipsy. 

"  Right  —  the  very  book  !"  cried  Fisher  with  joy.  "  But 
how  could  you  know  it  was  Dr.  Middleton's  name  ?  I 
thought  I  had  scratched  it  so  that  nobody  could  make  it 
out." 

" Nobody  could  make  it  out  but  me"  replied  the  gipsy. 


BARRING     OUT.  449 

•'  But  never  think  to  deceive  me,"  said  she,  shaking  her 
head  at  him  in  a  manner  that  made  him  tremble. 

"  I  do  n't  deceive  you,  indeed.  I  tell  you  the  whole  truth. 
I  lost  it  a  week  ago." 

"  True." 

"  And  when  shall  I  find  it  ?" 

"  Meet  me  here  at  this  hour  to-morrow  evening,  and  I  will 
answer  you  —  No  more  !  —  I  must  be  gone  —  Not  a  word 
more  to-night." 

She  pulled  the  shutters  towards  her,  and  left  the  youth  in 
darkness.  All  his  companions  were  gone.  He  had  been 
so  deeply  engaged  in  this  conference,  that  he  had  not  per- 
ceived their  departure.  He  found  all  the  world  at  supper, 
but  no  entreaties  could  prevail  upon  him  to  disclose  his 
secret.  Townsend  rallied  in  vain.  As  for  Archer,  he  was 
not  disposed  to  destroy  by  ridicule  the  effect  which  he  saw 
that  the  old  woman's  predictions  in  his  favour  had  had  upon 
the  imagination  of  many  of  his  little  partisans.  He  had 
privately  slipped  two  shillings  into  the  gipsy's  hand  to 
secure  her ;  for  he  was  willing  to  pay  any  price  for  any 
means  of  acquiring  power. 

The  watch-chain  had  not  deceived  the  gipsy,  for  Archer 
was  the  richest  person  in  the  community.  His  friends  had 
imprudently  sup-plied  him  with  more  money  than  is  usually 
trusted  to  boys  of  his  age.  Dr.  Middleton  had  refused  to 
give  him  a  larger  monthly  allowance  than  the  rest  of  his 
companions ;  but  he  brought  to  school  with  him  secretly 
the  sum  of  five  guineas.  This  appeared  to  his  friends  and 
to  himself  an  inexhaustible  treasure. 

Riches  and  talents  would,  he  flattered  himself,  secure  to 
him  that  ascendency  of  which  he  was  so  ambitious.  "  Am 
I  your  manager,  or  not?"  was  now  his  question.  "I  scorn 
to  take  advantag}  of  a  hasty  moment,  but  since  last  night 
you  have  had  time  to  consider.  If  you  desire  me  to  be  your 
manager,  you  shall  see  what  a  theatre  I  will  make-  for  you. 
lu  this  purse,"  said  he,  showing  through  the  net-work  a 
29 


450  BARRING     OUT. 

glimpse  of  th;  shining  treasure  —  "in  this  purse  is  Alad 
din's  wonderful  lamp.  Am  I  your  manager?  Put  it  to  the 
vote." 

It  was  put  to  the  vote.  About  ten  of  the  most  reasonable 
of  the  assembly  declared  their  gratitude  and  hi^h  approba- 
tion of  their  old  friend  De  Grey ;  but  the  numbers  were  in 
favour  of  the  new  friend.  And  as  no  metaphysical  distinc- 
tions relative  to  the  idea  of  a  majority  had  ever  entered 
their  thoughts,  the  most  numerous  party  considered  them- 
selves as  now  beyond  dispute  in  the  right.  They  drew  off 
on  one  side  in  triumph  ;  and  their  leader,  who  knew  the 
consequence  of  a  name  in  party  matters,  immediately  dis- 
tinguished his  partisans  by  the  gallant  name  of  Archers. 
stigmatizing  the  friends  of  De  Grey  by  the  epithet  of  Grey 
beards. 

Among  the  Archers  was  a  class  not  very  remarkable  for 
their  mental  qualifications  ;  but  who,  by  their  bodily  acti- 
vity, and  by  their  peculiar  advantages  annexed  to  their  way 
of  life,  rendered  themselves  of  the  highest  consequence, 
especially  to  the  rich  and  enterprising.  The  judicious 
reader  will  apprehend  that  I  allude  to  the  persons  called 
day-scholars.  Among  these,  Fisher  was  distinguished  by 
his  knowledge  of  all  the  streets  and  shops  of  the  adjacent 
town ;  and,  though  a  dull  scholar,  he  had  such  reputation 
as  a  man  of  business,  that  whoever  had  commissions  to 
execute  at  the  confectioners  were  sure  to  apply  to  him. 
Some  of  the  youngest  of  his  employers  had,  it  is  true,  at 
times  complained  that  he  made  mistakes  of  half-pence  and 
pence  in  their  accounts  ;  but  as  these  affairs  could  never  be 
brought  to  a  public  trial,  Fisher's  character  and  consequence 
were  undiminished,  till  the  fatal  day  when  his  aunt  Bar- 
bara forbade  his  visits  to  the  confectioner  —  or  rather,  till 
she  requested  the  confectioner,  who  had  his  private  reasons 
for  obeying  her,  i  ot  to  receive  her  nephew's  visits,  as  he  had 
made  himself  sick  at  his  house,  and  Mrs.  Barbara's  fears 
for  his  health  were  incessant. 


BARRING     OUT.  451 

Though  his  visits  to  the  confectioner's  were  thus  at  an 
end,  there  were  many  other  shops  open  to  him  ;  and  with 
officious  zeal,  he  offered  his  services  to  the  new  manager  to 
purchase  whatever  might  be  wanting  for  the  theatre. 

Since  his  father's  death,  Fisher  had  become  a  boarder  at 
Dr.  Middleton's  ;  but  his  frequent  visits  to  his  aunt  Barbara 
afforded  him  opportunities  of  going  into  the  town.  The 
carpenter,  De  Grey's  friend,  was  discarded  by  Archer  for 
having  said  "  Lack-a-daisy  I"  when  he  saw  that  the  old  the- 
atre was  pulled  down.  A  new  carpenter  and  paper-hanger, 
recommended  by  Fisher,  were  appointed  to  attend,  with 
their  tools,  for  orders,  at  two  o'clock.  Archer,  impatient  to 
show  his  ingenuity  and  his  generosity,  gave  his  plan  and 
his  orders  in  a  few  minutes,  in  a  most  decided  manner. — 
"These  things,"  he  observed,  "should  be  done  with  some 
spirit/' 

To  which  the  carpenter  readily  assented,  and  added,  that 
"Gentlemen  of  spirits,  never  looked  to  the  expense,  but 
always  to  the  effect."  Upon  this  principle  Mr.  Chip  set  to 
work  with  all  possible  alacrity.  In  a  few  hours'  time  he 
promised  to  produce  a  grand  effect.  High  expectations 
were  formed  —  nothing  was  talked  of  but  the  new  play- 
house ;  and  so  intent  upon  it  was  every  head,  that  no  les- 
sons could  be  got.  Archer  was  obliged,  in  the  midst  of  his 
various  occupations,  to  perform  the  part  of  grammar  and 
dictionary  for  twenty  different  people. 

"  0,  ye  Athenians  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  how  hard  do  I  work 
to  obtain  your  praise  I" 

Impatient  to  return  to  the  theatre,  the  moment  the  hours 
destined  for  instruction,  or,  as  they  are  termed  by  school- 
boys, school-hours,  were  over,  each  prisoner  started  up  with 
a  shout  of  joy. 

"  Stop  one  moment,  gentlemen,  if  you  please,"  said  Dr. 
Middleton,  in  an  awful  voice  "  Mr.  Archer,  return  to  your 
place.  —  Are  you  all  here?"  —  The  names  of  all  the  boys 
were  called  over,  and  when  ^ach  had  answered  to  his  name. 
Dr.  Middleton  said :— 


452  BARRING     OUT. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  your  amusements ; 
but,  till  you  have  contrary  orders  from  me,  no  one,  on  pain 
of  my  serious  displeasure,  must  go  into  that  building" 
(pointing  to  the  place  where  the  theatre  was  erecting)  — 
"  Mr.  Archer,  your  carpenter  is  at  the  door,  you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  dismiss  him  —  I  do  not  think  proper  to  give  my 
reasons  for  these  orders ;  but  you  who  know  me,"  said  the 
doctor,  and  his  eye  turned  towards  De  Grey,  "  will  not  sus 
pect  me  of  caprice  —  I  depend,  gentlemen,  upon  your  obe 
dience." 

To  the  dead  silence  with  which  these  orders  were  received, 
succeeded,  in  a  few  minutes,  a  universal  groan.  "  So  !"  said 
Townsend,  "  all  our  diversion  is  over."  —  "  So,"  whispered 
Fisher  in  the  manager's  ear.  "  this  is  some  trick  of  the  Grey- 
beards ;  did  you  not  observe  how  he  looked  at  De  Grey  ?" 
—  Fired  with  this  idea,  which  had  never  entered  his  mind 
before,  Archer  started  from  his  revery,  and  striking  his 
hand  upon  the  table,  swore,  "  that  he  would  not  be  outwitted 
by  any  Greybeard  in  Europe,  —  no,  not  by  all  of  them  put 
together.  The  Archers  are  surely  a  match  for  them  —  he 
would  stand  by  them,  if  they  would  stand  by  him,"  he 
declared,  with  a  loud  voice,  "  against  the  whole  world ;  and 
Dr.  Middleton  himself,  with  little  Premium  at  his  right 
hand." 

Everybody  admired  Archer's  spirit,  but  were  a  little 
appalled  at  the  sound  of  standing  against  Dr.  Middleton. 

"  Why  not?"  resumed  the  indignant  manager.  "  Neither 
Dr.  Middleton  nor  any  doctor  upon  earth  shall  treat  me  with 
injustice.  This,  you  see,  is  a  strok)  at  me  and  my  party, 
and  I  won't  bear  it." 

"  0,  you  are  mistaken !"  said  De  Grey,  who  was  the  only 
one  who  dared  oppose  reason  to  the  angry  orator  —  "  It  can- 
not be  a  stroke  aimed  at  you  and  your  party,  for  he  does 
not  know  that  you  have  a  party." 

"  I  '11  make  him  know  it,  and  I  '11  make  you  know  it  too," 
said  Archer.    "  Before  I  came  here  you  reigned  alone;  now 


BARRING     OUT.  453 

your  reign  is  over,  Mr.  De  Grey.  Kemember  my  majority 
this  morning,  and  your  theatre  last  night." 

"He  has  remembered  it,"  said  Fisher;  "you  see,  the 
moment  he  was  not  to  be  our  manager,  we  are  to  have  no 
theatre  —  no  play-house  —  no  plays.  We  must  all  sit  down 
with  our  hands  before  us  —  all  for  '  good  reasons '  of  Dr. 
Middleton's,  which  he  does  not  vouchsafe  to  tell  us." 

"  I  won't  be  governed  by  any  man's  reasons  that  he  won't 
tell  me,"  cried  Archer ;  "  he  cannot  have  good  reasons,  or 
why  not  tell  them  ?" 

"  Nonsense  !  we  shall  not  suspect  him  of  caprice  !" 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  we,  who  know  him,"  said  De  Grey,  "  have  never 
known  him  capricious." 

"  Perhaps  not:  /know  nothing  about  him,"  said  Archer. 

"  No,"  said  De  Grey  ;  "  for  that  very  reason  /speak  who 
do  know  him.     Do  n't  be  in  a  passion,  Archer." 

"I  will  be  in  a  passion  —  I  won't  submit  to  tyranny  —  I 
won't  be  made  a  fool  of  by  a  few  soft  words.  You  do  n't 
know  me,  De  Grey  —  I  '11  go  through  with  what  I  've  begun 
—  I  am  manager,  and  I  will  be  manager,  and  you  shall  see 
my  theatre  finished  in  spite  of  you,  and  my  party  trium- 
phant." 

"Party!"  repeated  De  Grey  —  "  I  cannot  imagine  what 
is  in  the  word  '  party,'  that  seems  to  drive  you  mad.  We 
never  heard  of  parties  till  you  came  among  us." 

"  No  ;  before  I  came,  I  sa^,  nobody  dared  oppose  you,  but 
J  dare  ;  and  I  tell  you  to  your  face  —  take  care  of  me.  A 
warm  friend  and  a  bitter  enemy  is  my  motto." 

"  I  am  not  your  enemy  !  —  I  believe  you  are  out  of  your 
senses,  Archer !"  said  he,  laughing. 

"  Out  of  my  senses  !  —  No  —  you  are  my  enemy  !  —  Are 
not  you  my  rival  ?  —  Did  not  you  win  the  premium  ?  —  Did 
not  you  want  to  be  manager?  —  Answer  me,  are  not  you.  in 
one  word,  a  Greybeard  V* 

"  You  called  me  a  Greybeard,  but  my  name  is  De  Grey," 
said  he,  still  laughing. 


454  BARRING     OUT. 

"Laugh  oil!"  cried  the  other,  furiously.  "Come,  Arch* 
ers,  follow  me  !  —  we  shall  laugh  by-and-bye,  I  promise  you/' 

At  the  door  Archer  was  stopped  by  Mr.  Chip  —  "  0,  Mr. 
Chip,  I  am  ordered  to  discharge  you." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  here  is  a  little  bill — " 

"  Bill,  Mr.  Chip  !  —  why,  you  have  not  been  at  work  for 
two  hours  !" 

"Not  much  over,  sir;  but  if  you'll  please  to  look  into  it, 
you  '11  see  it 's  for  a  few  things  you  ordered.  The  stuff  is 
laid  out  and  delivered.  The  paper,  and  the  festoon-border- 
ing for  the  drawing-room  scene,  is  cut  out,  and  left  yander, 
within." 

"  Yander,  within  !  —  I  wish  you  had  not  been  in  such  a 
confounded  hurry  —  six-and-twenty  shillings  V  cried  he, 
"  but  I  can't  stay  to  talk  about  it  now.  I  '11  tell  you,  Mr. 
Chip,"  said  Archer,  lowering  his  voice,  "  what  you  must  do 
for  me,  my  good  fellow."  —  Then  drawing  Mr.  Chip  aside, 
he  begged  him  to  pull  down  some  of  the  wood-work  which 
had  been  put  up,  and  to  cut  it  into  a  certain  number  of 
wooden  bars,  of  which  he  gave  him  the  dimensions,  with 
orders  to  place  them  all,  when  ready,  under  a  hay-stack, 
which  he  pointed  out.  Mr.  Chip  scrupled  and  hesitated, 
and  began  to  talk  of  " the  doctor"  Archer  immediately 
began  to  talk  of  the  bill,  and  throwing  down  a  guinea  and 
a  half,  the  conscientious  carpenter  pocketed  the  money 
directly,  and  made  his  bow. 

"  Well,  Master  Archer,"  said  he,  "  there 's  no  refusing 
you  nothing.  You  have  such  a  way  of  talking  one  out  of 
it  —  you  manage  me  just  like  a  child." 

"Ay,  ay!"  said  Archer,  knowing  that  he  had  been 
cheated,  and  yet  proud  of  managing  a  carpenter  —  "  ay,  ay, 
I  know  tha  way  to  manage  everybody  —  let  the  things  be 
ready  in  an  hour's  time  —  and  hark'e  !  leave  your  tools  by 
mistake  behind  you,  and  a  thousand  of  twenty-penny  nails 
—  Ask  no  questions,  and  keep  your  own  counsel,  like  a  wise 
man  —  off  with  you,  and  take  care  of  'the  doctor.'" 


BARRING     OUT.  455 

"  Archers  !  Archers  !  —  To  the  Archers'  tree  ;  follow  your 
leader/'  cried  he,  sounding  his  well-known  whistle  as  a  sig- 
nal. His  followers  gathered  round  him ;  and  he,  raising 
himself  upon  the  mount  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  counted  his 
numbers,  and  then,  in  a  voice  lower  than  usual,  addressed 
them  thus : — 

"  My  friends,  is  there  a  Greybeard  among  us  ?  If  there 
is,  let  him  walk  off  now  —  he  has  my  free  leave." 

No  one  stirred  —  "  Then  we  are  all  Archers,  and  we  will 
stand  by  one  another — join  hands,  my  friends." 

They  all  joined  hands. 

"  Promise  me  not  to  betray  me,  and  I  will  go  on  —  I  ask 
no  security  but  your  honour." 

They  all  gave  their  honour  to  be  secret  and  faithful,  as 
he  called  it,  and  he  went  on — 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  as  a  barring  out,  my 
friends  ?" 

They  had  heard  of  such  a  thing ;  but  they  had  only  heard 
of  it. 

Archer  gave  the  history  of  a  barring  out,  in  which  he 
had  been  concerned  at  his  school ;  in  which  the  boys  stood 
out  two  days  against  the  master,  and  gained  their  point  at 
last,  which  was  a  week's  more  holidays  at  Easter. 

" But  if  we  should  not  succeed?"  said  they:  "Dr.  Mid- 
dleton  is  so  steady,  he  never  goes  back  from  what  he  has 
said." 

"  Did  you  ever  try  to  push  him  back  ?  —  Let  us  be  steady, 
and  he  '11  tremble  —  tyrants  always  tremble  when — " 

"0!"  interrupted  a  number  of  voices,  "but  he  is  not  a 
tyrant,  is  he  ?" 

"All  schoolmasters  ar1,-  tyrants,  are  not  they?"  replied 
Archer;  "and  is  not  he  a  schoolmaster?" 

To  this  logic  there  was  no  answer;  but,  still  reluctant, 
they  asked,  "  What  they  should  get  by  a  barring  out?" 

"  Get  I — Everything  ! — What  we  want!  —  which  is  every- 
thing to  lado  of  sj  irit  —  victory  and  liberty !  —  Bar  him  out 


45b  BARRING     OUT. 

rill  he  repeals  his  tyrannical  law  —  till  he  lets  us  into  oui 
own  theatre  again,  or  till  he  tells  us  his  'good  reasons7 
Against  it." 

"  But  perhaps  he  has  reasons  for  not  telling  us  ?" 

"Impossible!"  cried  Archer;  "that's  the  way  we  arc 
always  to  be  governed  by  a  man  in  a  wig,  who  says  he  baa 
good  reasons,  and  can't  tell  them  —  Are  you  fools?  —  Go  — 
go  back  to  De  Grey  —  I  see  you  are  all  Greybeards  —  Go  — 
who  goes  first  V 

Nobody  would  go  first. 

" 1  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  ye,  if  ye  are  resolved  to 
be  slaves !" 

"  We  won't  be  slaves  !"  they  all  exclaimed  at  once. 

"  Then,"  said  Archer,  "  stand  out  in  the  right,  and  be 
free." 

"  The  right!"  —  It  would  have  taken  up  too  much  time 
fco  examine  what  "the  right"  was.  Archer  was  always 
sure  that  "  the  right"  was  what  his  party  chose  to  do  —  that 
is,  what  he  chose  to  do  himself;  and  such  is  the  influence 
of  numbers  upon  each  other  in  conquering  the  feelings  of 
shame,  and  in  confusing  the  powers  of  reasoning,  that  in  a 
few  minutes  "the  right"  was  forgotten,  and  each  said  to 
himself —  "  To  be  sure,  Archer  is  a  very  clever  boy,  and  he 
can't  be  mistaken;"  —  or,  "To  be  sure,  Townsend  thinks 
so,  and  he  would  not  do  anything  to  get  us  into  a  scrape ;" 
—  or,  "  To  be  sure,  everybody  will  agree  to  this  but  myself, 
and  I  can't  stand  out  alone,  to  be  pointed  at  as  a  Greybeard 
and  a  slave.  Everybody  thinks  it  is  right,  and  everybody 
can't  be  wrong." 

By  some  of  these  arguments,  which  passed  rapidly  through 
nis  mind,  without  his  being  conscious  of  them,  each  boy 
decided,  and  deceived  himself:  what  none  would  have  done 
alone,  none  scrupled  to  do  as  a  party. 

It  was  determined  then  that  there  should  be  a  barring  out. 
The  arrangement  of  the  affair  was  left  to  their  new  man* 
ager,  to  whom  they  all  pledged  implicit  obedience. 


BARRING     OUT.  457 

Obedience,  it  seems,  is  necessary  even  from  rebels  to  their 
ringleaders  —  not  reasonable,  but  implicit  obedience. 

Scarcely  had  the  assembly  adjourned  to  *Jie  Ball-alley, 
when  Tisher,  with  an  important  length  of  face,  came  up  to 
the  manager,  and  desired  to  speak  one  word  to  him. 

"  My  advice  to  you,  Archer,  is  to  do  nothing  in  this  til! 
we  have  consulted  you  know  who  about  whether  it 's  right 
or  wrong." 

"You  know  who!  —  Who  do  you  mean?  —  Make  haste, 
and  do  n't  make  so  many  faces,  for  I  'm  in  a  hurry  —  Who 
is  '  You  know  who  ?'  " 

"  The  old  woman/'  said  Fisher,  gravely  ;  "  the  gipsy." 

"You  may  consult  the  old  woman,"  said  Archer,  bursting 
out  a  laughing,  "about  what's  right  and  wrong,  if  you 
please  ;  but  no  old  woman  shall  decide  for  me." 

"  No  ;  but  you  do  n't  take  me,"  said  Fisher.  "  You  do  n't 
take  me.     By  right  and  wrong  I  mean  lucky  and  unlucky." 

"  Whatever  I  do  will  be  lucky,"  replied  Archer.  "  My 
gipsy  told  you  that  already." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Fisher;  "and  what  she  said 
about  your  friends  being  lucky  —  that  went  a  great  way 
with  many,"  added  he,  with  a  sagacious  nod  of  his  head, 
"I  can  tell  you  that — more  than  you  think  —  Do  you 
know,"  said  he,  laying  hold  of  Archer's  button,  "  I  'm  in 
the  secret.  There  are  nine  of  us  have  crooked  our  little 
fingers  upon  it  not  to  stir  a  step  till  we  get  her  advice ;  and 
she  has  appointed  me  to  meet  her  about  particular  business 
of  my  own  at  eight.  So  I  'm  to  consult  her,  and  to  bring 
her  answer." 

Archer  knew  too  well  how  to  govern  fools  to  attempt  to 
reason  with  them  ;  and,  instead  of  laughing  any  longer  at 
Fisher's  ridiculous  superstition,  he  was  determined  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  He  affected  to  be  persuaded  of  the  wis- 
dom of  the  measure  —  looked  at  his  watch,  urged  him  to  be 
exact  to  a  moment,  conjured  him  to  remember  exactly  the 
words  of  the  oracle,  and,  above  all  things,  to  demand  the 


458  BARRING     OUT. 

lucky   hour   and  minute   when   the   barring    out    should 
begin. 

"With  these  instructions,  Archer  put  his  watch  into  the 
solemn  dupe's  hand,  and  left  him  to  count  the  seconds,  till 
the  moment  of  his  appointment,  while  he  ran  off  himself  to 
prepare  the  oracle.  At  a  little  gate,  which  looked  into  a 
lane,  through  which  he  guessed  that  the  gipsy  must  pass 
he  stationed  himself,  saw  her,  gave  her  half  a  crown  an 
her  instructions,  made  his  escape,  and  got  back  unsuspected 
to  Fisher,  whom  he  found  in  the  attitude  in  which  he  had 
left  him,  watching  the  motion  of  the  minute-hand. 

Proud  of  his  secret  commission,  Fisher  slouched  his  hat, 
he  knew  not  why,  over  his  face,  and  proceeded  towards  the 
appointed  spot.  To  keep,  as  he  had  been  charged  to  do  by 
Archer,  within  the  letter  of  the  law,  he  stood  behind  the 
orbidden  building,  and  waited  for  some  minutes.  Through 
a  gap  in  the  hedge  the  old  woman  at  length  made  her 
appearance,  muffled  up,  and  looking  cautiously  about  her. 

"  There 's  nobody  near  us  !"  said  Fisher,  and  he  began  to 
be  a  little  afraid  —  "what  answer,"  said  he,  recollecting; 
himself,  "  about  my  Livy  ?" 

"  Lost !  —  Lost !  —  Lost !"  said  the  gipsy,  lifting  up  her 
hands  ;  "  never,  never,  never  to  be  found  !  —  But  no  matter 
for  that  now  —  that  is  not  your  errand  to-night  —  no  tricks 
with  me  —  speak  to  me  of  what  is  next  your  heart." 

Fisher,  astonished,  put  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  told  her 
all  that  she  knew  before,  and  received  the  answers  which 
Archer  dictated  —  "That  the  Archers  should  be  lucky  as 
long  as  they  stuck  to  their  manager  and  to  one  another ; 
that  the  barring  out  should  end  in  wo,  if  not  begun  pre- 
cisely as  the  clock  should  strike  nine  on  Wednesday  night; 
but  if  begun  in  that  lucky  mom:nt,  and  all  obedient  to  their 
lucky  leader,  all  should  end  well." 

A  thought,  a  provident  thought,  now  struck  Fisher;  for 
even  he  had  some  foresight,  where  his  favourite  passion  was 
concerned — "  Pray,  in  our  barring  out  shall  we  be  starved?" 


PARKING     OUT.  459 

:*No,"  said  the  gipsy,  "not  if  you  trust  to  me  for  food, 
and  if  you  give  me  money  enough  —  silver  won't  do  for 
bo  many,  for  gold  is  what  must  cross  my  hand." 

"I  have  no  gold,"  said  Fisher,  "and  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean  by  so  many.  I  'm  only  talking  of  number  one, 
you  know  —  I  must  take  care  of  that  first." 

So,  as  Fisher  thought  that  it  was  possible  that  Archer, 
clever  as  he  was,  might  be  disappointed  in  his  supplies,  he 
determined  to  take  secret  measures  for  hitnself.  His  aunt 
Barbara's  interdiction  had  shut  him  out  of  the  confection- 
er's shop,  but  he  flattered  himself  that  he  could  outwit  his 
aunt ;  he  therefore  begged  the  gipsy  to  procure  him  twelve 
buns  by  Thursday  morning,  and  bring  them  secretly  to  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  school-room. 

As  Fisher  did  not  produce  any  money  when  he  made  this 
proposal,  it  was  at  first  absolutely  rejected;  but  a  bribe  at 
length  conquered  all  difficulties  ;  and  the  bribe  which  Fisher 
found  himself  obliged  to  give  —  for  he  had  no  pocket-money 
left  of  his  own,  he  being  as  much  restricted  in  that  article 
as  Archer  was  indulged — the  bribe  that  he  found  himself 
obliged  to  give,  to  quiet  the  gipsy,  was  half  a  crown,  which 
Archer  had  intrusted  to  him  to  buy  candles  for  the  theatre. 
"  0,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "  Archer 's  so  careless  about 
money,  he  will  never  think  of  asking  me  for  the  half-crown 
again  ;  and  now  he  '11  want  no  candles  for  the  theatre  —  or 
at  any  rate  it  will  be  some  time  first,  and  maybe  aunt  Bar- 
bara maybe  got  to  give  me  that  much  at  Christmas  —  then, 
if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  I  can  pay  Archer.  My 
mouth  waters  for  the  buns,  and  have  'em  I  must  now." 

So,  for  the  hope  of  twelve  buns,  he  sacrificed  the  money 
which  had  Veen  intrusted  to  him.  The  meanest  motives, 
in  mean  mi  ..ds,  often  prompt  to  the  commission  of  those 
great  faults,  to  which,  one  should  think,  nothing  but  some 
violent  passion  could  have  tempted. 

The  ambassador  having  thus,  in  his  opinion,  concluded 
his  own  and  the  public  business,  returned,  well  satisfied 


460  BARRIES     OUT. 

with  the  result,  after  receiving  the  gipsy's  reiterated  pro- 
mise to  tap  three  times  at  the  window  on  Thursday  morning. 

The  day  appointed  for  the  barring  out  at  length  arrived ; 
and  Archer,  assembling  the  -onfederates,  informed  them 
that  all  was  prepared  for  carrying  their  design  into  execu- 
tion ;  that  he  now  depended  for  success  upon  their  punctu 
ality  and  courage.  He  had,  within  the  last  two  hours,  got 
all  the  bars  ready  to  fasten  the  doors  and  window-shutters 
of  the  school-room  ;  he  had,  with  the  assistance  of  two  of 
the  day-scholars,  who  were  of  the  party,  sent  into  the  town 
for  provision,  at  his  own  expense,  which  would  make  a 
handsome  supper  for  that  night ;  he  had  also  negotiated 
with  some  cousins  of  his,  who  lived  in  the  town,  for  a  con- 
stant supply  in  future. 

"  Bless  me !"  exclaimed  Archer,  suddenly  stopping  in 
this  narration  of  his  services,  "there's  one  thing,  after  all, 
I  've  forgot;  we  shall  be  undone  without  it  —  Fisher,  pray, 
did  you  ever  buy  the  candles  for  the  playhouse  Vf 

"  No,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Fisher,  extremely  frightened, 
"  you  know  you  do  n't  want  candles  for  the  play-house  now." 

"Not  for  the  play-house,  but  for  the  barring  out  —  we 
shall  be  in  the  dark,  man  —  you  must  run  this  minute  — 
run." 

" For  candles ?"  said  Fisher,  confused;  "how  many?  — 
what  sort  ?" 

"  Stupidity !"  exclaimed  Archer ;  "  you  are  a  pretty  fel- 
low at  a  dead  lift !  Lend  me  a  pencil  and  a  bit  of  paper,  do ; 
I  '11  write  down  what  I  want  myself.  Well,  what  are  you 
fumbling  for?" 

"For  money!"  said  Fisher,  colouring. 

"  Money,  man  !  Did  n't  I  give  you  half  a  crown  the  other 
day?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Fisher,  stammering ;  "  but  I  was  n't  sure 
that  that  might  be  enough." 

"  Enough  !  yes,  to  be  sure  it  will  —  I  do  n't  know  what 
you  are  at." 


BARRING     OUT.  461 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  said  Fisher  ;  "  here,  wr.te  upon  this 
then,"  putting  a  piece  of  paper  into  Archer's  hand,  upon 
uhich  Archer  wrote  his  orders.     "  Away,  away  I"  cried  he. 

And  away  went  Fisher.  He  returned ;  bnt  not  until  a 
considerable  time  afterward. 

They  were  at  supper  when  he  returned.  "  Fisher  always 
comes  in  at  supper-time,"  observed  one  of  the  Greybeards, 
carelessly. 

"  Well,  and  would  you  have  him  come  in  after  supper- 
time  V  said  Townsend,  who  always  supplied  his  party  with 
ready  wit. 

"I've  got  the  candles,"  whispered  Fisher,  as  he  passed 
by  Archer  to  his  place. 

"And  the  tinder-box?"  said  Archer. 

"  Yes  ;  I  got  back  from  my  aunt  Barbara  under  pretence 
that  I  must  study  for  repetition-day  an  hour  later  to-night. 
So  I  got  leave.     Was  not  that  clever  ?" 

A  dunce  always  thinks  it  clever  to  cheat  even  by  sobe~ 
lies. 

How  Mr.  Fisher  procured  the  candles  and  the  tinder-box 
without  money,  and  without  credit,  for  he  had  no  credit,  we 
shall  discover  in  future. 

Archer  and  his  associates  had  agreed  to  stay  the  last  in 
the  schoolroom,  and  as  soon  as  the  Greybeards  were  gone 
out  to  bed,  he,  as  the  signal,  was  to  shut  and  lock  one  door, 
Townsend  the  other ;  a  third  conspirator  was  to  strike  a 
light,  in  case  they  should  not  be  able  to  secure  a  candle  ;  a 
fourth  was  to  take  charge  of  the  candle  as  soon  as  lighted ; 
and  all  the  rest  were  to  run  to  their  bars,  which  were 
secreted  in  the  room  ;  then  to  fix  them  to  the  common  fast- 
ening bars  of  the  window,  in  the  manner  in  which  they  had 
been  previously  instructed  by  the  manager.  Thus  each 
had  his  part  assigned,  and  each  was  warned,  that  the  suc- 
cess of  the  whole  depended  upon  their  order  and  punctu- 
ality. 


402  BA1.  RING     OUT. 

Order  and  punctuality,  it  appears,  are  necessary  even  in 
a  barring  out ;  and  even  rebellion  must  have  its  laws. 

The  long-expected  moment  at  length  arrived.  De  Grey 
and  his  friends,  unconscious  of  what  was  going  forward, 
walked  out  of  the  school-room  as  usual  at  bedtime.  The 
clock  began  to  strike  nine.  There  was  one  Greybeard  left 
in  the  room,  who  was  packing  up  some  of  his  books,  which 
had  been  left  about  by  accident.  It  was  impossible  to 
describe  the  impatience  with  which  he  was  watched,  espe- 
cially by  Fisher  and  the  nine  who  depended  upon  the  gipsy 
oracle. 

When  he  had  got  all  his  books  together  under  his  arm, 
he  let  one  of  them  fall ;  and  while  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up, 
Archer  gave  the  signal.  The  doors  were  shut,  locked,  and 
double-locked  in  an  instant.  A  light  was  struck,  and  each 
ran  to  his  post.  The  bars  were  all  in  the  same  moment  put 
up  to  the  windows,  and  Archer,  when  he  had  tried  them  all, 
and  seen  that  they  were  secure,  gave  a  loud  "Huzza!"  — 
in  which  he  was  joined  by  all  the  party  most  manfully  — 
by  all  but  the  poor  Greybeard,  who,  the  picture  of  astonish- 
ment, stood  stock-still  in  the  midst  of  them  with  his  books 
under  his  arm  ;  at  which  spectacle  Townsend,  who  enjoyed 
the  frolic  of  the  fray  more  than  anything  else,  burst  into 
an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter. 

"  So,  my  little  Greybeard/'  said  he,  holding  a  candle  full 
in  his  eyes,  "what  think  you  of  all  this?  How  came  you 
among  the  wicked  ones?" 

"  I  do  n't  know,  indeed,"  said  the  little  boy,  very  gravely ; 
" you  shut  me  up  among  you  —  won't  you  let  me  out?" 

"  Let  you  out !  No,  no,  my  little  Greybeard,"  said 
Archer,  catching  hold  of  him,  and  dragging  him  to  the 
window-bars  ;  "  look  ye  here  —  touch  these  —  put  your  hand 
to  them  —  pull,  push,  kick  —  put  a  little  spirit  into  it,  man 
—  kick  like  an  Archer,  if  you  can  —  away  with  ye.  It 's  a 
pity  that  the  king  of  the  Greybeards  is  not  here  to  admire 
me  —  I  should  like  to  show  him  our  fortifications.     Bui 


BARRING    our.  AGS 

come,  my  meiry-men  all,  now  to  the  feast.  Out  with  the 
table  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  Good  cheer,  my  jolly 
Archers  !     I  'm  your  manager  I" 

Townseud,  delighted  with  the  bustle,  rubbed  his  hands 
and  capered  about  the  room,  while  the  preparations  for  the 
feast  were  hurried  forward. 

"  Four  candles  !  Four  candles  on  the  table  !  Let 's  have 
things  in  style  when  we  are  about  it,  Mr.  Manager,"  cried 
Townsend.  "  Places  !  —  Places  !  There  's  nothing  like  a 
fair  scramble,  my  boys.  Let  every  one  take  care  of  him- 
self—  Hallo!  Greybeard,  —  I've  knocked  Greybeard  down 
here  in  the  scuffle.  Get  up  again,  my  lad,  and  see  a  little 
of  life." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Fisher,  "  he  shan't  sup  with  us." 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  manager,  "he  shan't  live  with  .us;  a 
Greybeard  is  not  fit  company  for  Archers." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Townsend,  "  evil  communication  corrupts 
good  manners." 

So,  with  one  unanimous  hiss,  they  hunted  the  poor  little 
gentle  boy  into  a  corner ;  and  having  pent  him  up  with 
benches,  Fisher  opened  his  books  for  him,  which  he  thought 
the  greatest  mortification,  and  set  up  a  candle  beside  him 
—  "  There,  now  he  looks  like  a  Greybeard  as  he  is !"  cried 
they. 

"Tell  me  what's  the  Latin  for  cold  roast  beef,"  said 
Fisher,  exulting,  and  they  returned  to  their  feast. 

Long  and  loud  they  revelled.  They  had  a  few  bottles  of 
cider.  "  Give  me  the  corkscrew,  the  cider  shan't  be  kept 
till  it's  sour,"  cried  Townsend,  in  answer  to  the  manager, 
who,  when  he  beheld  the  provision  vanishing  with  surpris* 
ing  rapidity,  began  to  fear  for  the  morrow. 

"  Hang  to-morrow  !"  cried  Townsend,  "  let  Greybeards 
think  of  to-morrow  ;  Mr.  Manager,  here  's  your  good  health." 

The  Archers  all  stood  uo  as  their  cups  were  filled,  to 
drink  the  health  of  their  chief  with  a  universal  cheer. 

But  at  the  moment  that  the  cups  were  at  their  lips,  and 


46-1  BARRING     OUT. 

as  Aivher  bowed  to  thank  the  company,  a  siuden  shower 
from  above  astonished  the  whole  assembly.  They  looked 
up,  and  beheld  the  hose  of  a  watering-engine,  the  long  neck 
of  which  appeared  through  a  trap-door  in  the  ceiling. 

"Your  good  health,  Mr.  Manager,"  said  a  voice,  which 
was  known  to  be  the  gardener's,  and  in  the  midst  of  their 
surprise  and  dismay  the  candles  were  suddenly  extin- 
guished, the  trap-door  shut  down,  and  they  were  left  in  utter 
darkness. 

"The  devil!"  said  Archer. 

"  D o  n't  swear,  Mr.  Manager,"  said  the  same  voice,  from 
the  ceiling.     "  I  hear  every  word  you  say." 

"  Mercy  upon  us !"  exclaimed  Fisher.  "  The  clock," 
added  he,  whispering,  "  must  have  been  wrong,  for  it  had 
not  done  striking  when  we  began.  Only  you  remember, 
Archer,  it  had  just  done  before  you  had  done  locking  your 
door." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  blockhead!"  said  Archer.  "Well, 
boys  !  were  ye  never  in  the  dark  before  ?  You  are  not  afraid 
of  a  shower  of  rain,  I  hope.     Is  anybody  drowned?" 

"  No,"  said  they,  with  a  faint  laugh  ;  "  but  what  shall  we 
do  here  in  the  dark  all  night  long,  and  all  day  to-morrw? 
we  can't  unbar  the  shutters." 

"  It 's  a  wonder  nobody  ever  thought  of  that  trap-door," 
said  Townsend. 

The  trap-door  had  indeed  escaped  the  manager's  observa- 
tion, as  the  house  was  new  to  him,  and  the  ceiling  being 
newly  white-washed,  the  opening  was  scarcely  perceptible. 
Vexed  to  be  out-generalled,  and  still  more  vexed  to  have  it 
remarked,  Archer  poured  forth  a  volley  of  incoherent  excla- 
mations and  reproaches  against  those  who  were  thus  so 
soon  discouraged  by  a  trifle ;  and  groping  for  the  tinder- 
box,  he  asked  "  if  anything  could  be  easier  than  to  strike 
b  light  again." 

The  light  appeared.  But  at  the  moment  that  it  made  the 
tinder-box  visible,  another  shower  from  above,  aimed,  and 


BARRING     OUT.  465 

aimed  exactly,  at  the  tinder-box,  drenched  it  with  water, 
and  rendered  it  totally  unfit  for  further  service. 

Archer  in  a  fury  dashed  it  to  the  ground.  And  now  for 
the  first  time  he  felt  what  it  was  to  be  the  unsuccessful  head 
of  a  party.  He  heard  in  his  turn  the  murmurs  of  the  dis- 
contented, changeable  populace,  and  recollecting  all  his 
bars,  and  bolts,  and  ingenious  contrivances,  he  was  more 
provoked  at  their  blaming  him  for  this  one  only  oversight, 
than  he  was  grieved  at  the  disaster  itself. 

"  0,  my  hair  is  all  wet !"  cried  one,  dolefully. 

"  Wring  it,  then,"  said  Archer. 

"  My  hand 's  cut  with  your  broken  glass,"  cried  another. 

"  Glass  !"  cried  a  third,  "  mercy  !  is  there  broken  glass? 
and  it's  all  about,  I  suppose,  among  the  supper  —  and  I  had 
but  one  bit  of  bread  all  the  time." 

"  Bread  !"  cried  Archer —  "  eat,  if  you  want  it.  Here  'a 
a  piece  here,  and  no  glass  near  it." 

"It's  all  wet  —  and  I  don't  like  dry  bread  by  itself. 
That 's  no  feast." 

"  Heigh-day !  — What,  nothing  but  moaning  and  grum- 
bling !  if  these  are  the  joys  of  a  barring  out,"  cried  Town- 
send,  "  I  'd  rather  be  snug  in  my  bed.  I  expected  that  we 
should  have  sat  up  till  twelve  o'clock  talking,  ana  laughing, 
and  singing." 

"So  you  may  still  —  what  hinders  you?"  said  ArcHer. 
"  Sing,  and  we  '11  join  you,  and  I  should  be  flad  tho*e  fel- 
lows overhead  heard  us  singing.     Begin,  Townsend.: 

'  Come,  now,  all  ye  social  powers, 
Spread  your  influence  o'er  us — ' 

or  else, 

'Rule,  Britannia!  —  Britannia  rules  the  waves  I 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves  V" 

Nothing  can  be  more  melancholy  than  forced  merriment 
In  vain  they  roared  in  chorus  ;  in  vain  they  tried  to  appear 
gay  —  it  would  not  do.    The  voices  died  away,  and  dropped 
30 


466  BARRING     OUT. 

off  one  by  one.  They  had  each  provided  himself  with  a 
great-coat  to  sleep  upon,  but  now  in  the  dark  there  was  a 
peevish  scrambling  contest  for  the  coats,  and  half  the  com- 
pany, in  very  bad  humour,  stretched  themselves  upon  the 
benches  for  the  night. 

There  is  great  pleasure  in  bearing  anything  that  has  the 
appearance  of  hardship,  as  long  as  there  is  any  glory  to  be 
acquired  by  it ;  but  when  people  feel  themselves  foiled,  there 
is  no  further  pleasure  in  endurance ;  and  if  in  their  misfor- 
tune there  is  any  mixture  of  the  ridiculous,  the  motives  for 
heroism  are  immediately  destroyed.  Dr.  Middleton  had 
probably  considered  this,  in  the  choice  he  had  made  of  his 
first  attack. 

Archer,  who  had  spent  the  night  as  a  man  that  had  the 
cares  of  government  upon  his  shoulders,  rose  early  in  the 
morning,  while  everybody  else  was  fast  asleep.  In  the 
night  he  had  revolved  the  affair  of  the  trap-door,  and  a  new 
danger  had  alarmed  him.  It  was  possible  that  the  enemy 
might  descend  upon  them  through  the  trap-door.  The  room 
had  been  built  high,  to  admit  a  free  circulation  of  air.  It 
was  twenty  feet  high,  so  that  it  was  in  vain  to  think  of 
reaching  to  the  trap-door.  As  soon  as  daylight  appeared, 
Archer  rose  softly,  that  he  might  reconnoitre,  and  devise 
some  method  of  guarding  against  this  new  danger.  Luckily 
there  were  round  holes  in  the  top  of  the  window-shutter, 
which  admitted  sufficient  light  for  him  to  work  by.  The 
remains  of  the  soaked  feast,  wet  candles,  and  broken  glass, 
spread  over  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  looked 
rather  dismal  this  morning. 

"  A  pretty  set  of  fellows  I  have  to  manage  \"  said  Archer, 
contemplating  the  group  of  sleepers  before  him.  "It  is 
well  they  have  somebody  to  think  for  them.  Now,  if  I 
wanted  —  which,  thank  goodness,  I  don't  —  but  if  I  did 
want  to  call  a  cabinet-council  to  my  assistance,  whom  could 
I  pitch  upon?  Not  this  stupid  snorer,  who  is  dreaming  of 
gipsies,  if  he  is  dreaming  of  anything,"  continue  1  Archer, 
as  he  looked  into  Fisher's  open  mouth. 


BARRING     OUT.  467 

"  This  next  chap  is  quick  enough,  but  then  he  is  so  fond 
of  having  everything  his  own  way. 

"  And  this  eurl-pated  monkey  who  is  grinning  in  his  sleep 
is  all  tongue  and  no  brains. 

"  Here  are  brains,  though  nobody  would  think  it,  in  this 
lump,"  said  he,  looking  at  a  fat,  rolled  up,  heavy-breathing 
sleeper:  "but  what  signify  brains  to  such  a  lazy  dog?  I 
might  kick  him  for  my  foot-ball  this  half-hour,  before  I 
should  get  him  awake. 

"This  lank-jawed  harlequin  beside  him  is  a  handy  fel- 
low, to  be  sure ;  but  then,  if  he  has  hands,  he  has  no  head 
—  and  he  'd  be  afraid  of  his  own  shadow,  too,  by  this  light, 
he  is  such  a  coward  ! 

"  And  Townsend,  why  he  has  puns  in  plenty ;  but  when 
there  's  any  work  to  be  done,  he 's  the  worst  fellow  to  be 
near  one  in  the  world  —  he  can  do  nothing  but  laugh  at  his 
own  puns. 

"  This  poor  little  fellow,  that  we  hunted  into  the  cornel, 
has  more  sense  than  all  of  them  put  together,  —  but  then 
he 's  a  Greybeard." 

Thus  speculated  the  chief  of  a  party  upon  his  sleeping 
friends.  And  how  did  it  happen,  that  he  should  be  so  ambi- 
tious to  please  and  govern  this  set,  when  for  each  individual 
of  which  it  was  composed  he  felt  such  supreme  contempt? 
He  had  formed  them  into  a,  party,  had  given  the.n  a  name, 
and  he  was  at  their  head.  If  these  be  not  good  reasons, 
none  better  can  be  assigned  for  Archer's  conduct. 

"I  wish  ye  could  all  sleep  on,"  said  he;  "but  I  must 
waken  ye,  though  ye  will  only  be  in  my  way.  The  sound 
of  my  hammering  must  waken  them,  so  I  may  as  well  do 
the  thing,  and  flatter  some  of  them  by  pretending  to  ask 
their  advice." 

Accordingly  he  pulled  two  or  three  to  waken  them. 
"  Come,  Townsend  !  waken,  my  boy !  Here 's  some  diver- 
sion for  you  —  up  !  up  !" 

"Diversion!"  cried  Townsend;  "I'm  your  man  1  I'm 
up  —  up  to  anything I" 


468  BARRING     OUT. 

So,  under  the  name  of  diversion,  Archer  set  Townsend  to 
work  at  four  o'c  ock  in  the  morning.  They  had  nails,  a  few 
tools,  and  severxl  spars  still  left  from  the  wreck  of  the  play- 
house. These,  by  Archer's  directions,  they  sharpened  at 
one  end,  and  nailed  them  to  the  ends  of  several  forms.  All 
hands  were  now  called  to  clear  away  the  supper  things,  and 
to  erect  these  forms  perpendicularly  under  the  trap-door ; 
and  with  the  assistance  of  a  few  braces,  a  cheval-de-frise 
was  formed,  upon  which  nobody  could  venture  to  descend. 
At  the  farthest  end  of  the  room  they  likewise  formed  a  pent- 
house of  the  tables,  under  which  they  proposed  to  breakfast, 
secure  from  the  pelting  storm,  if  it  should  again  assail  them 
through  the  trap-door.  They  crowded  under  the  pent-house 
as  soon  as  it  was  ready,  and  their  admiration  of  its  inge- 
nuity paid  the  workmen  for  the  job. 

"  Lord !  I  shall  like  to  see  the  gardener's  phiz  through 
the  trap-door,  when  he  beholds  the  spikes  under  him !" 
cried  Townsend.     "  Now  for  breakfast !" 

"  Ay,  now  for  breakfast/'  said  Archer,  looking  at  his 
watch  ;  "  past  eight  o'clock,  and  my  town-boys  not  come ! 
I  do  n't  understand  this." 

Archer  had  expected  a  constant  supply  of  provision  from 
two  boys  who  lived  in  the  town,  who  were  cousins  of  his, 
and  who  had  promised  to  come  every  day,  and  put  food  in 
at  a  certain  hole  in  the  wall,  in  which  a  ventilator  usually 
turned.  This  ventilator  Archer  had  taken  down,  and  had 
contrived  it  so  that  it  could  be  easily  removed  and  replaced 
at  pleasure  ;  but  upon  examination  it  was  now  perceived 
that  the  hole  had  been  newly  stopped  up  by  an  iron  back, 
which  it  was  impossible  to  penetrate  or  remove. 

"  It  never  came  into  my  head,  that  anybody  would  ever 
have  thought  of  the  ventilator  but  myself,"  exclaimed 
Archer,  in  great  perplexity.  He  listened,  and  waited  for 
his  cousins,  but  no  cousins  came ;  and,  at  a  late  hour,  the 
company  were  obliged  to  breakfast  upon  the  scattered  frag- 
ments of  the  last  night's  feast.    That  feast  had  been  spread 


BARRING     OUT.  469 

with  such  imprudent  profusion,  that  little  now  remained  to 
satisfy  the  hungry  guests.  Archer,  who  well  knew  the  effect 
which  the  apprehension  of  a  scarcity  would  have  upon  his 
associates,  did  everything  that  could  be  done  by  a  bold 
countenance  and  reiterated  assertions,  to  persuade  them 
that  his  cousins  would  certainly  come  at  last,  and  that  the 
supplies  were  only  delayed.  The  delay,  however,  was 
alarming. 

Fisher  alone  heard  the  manager's  calculations  and  saw 
the  public  fears  unmoved.  Secretly  rejoicing  in  his  own 
wisdom,  he  walked  from  window  to  window,  slyly  listening 
for  the  gipsy's  signal.  "  There  it  is  !"  cried  he,  with  more 
joy  sparkling  in  his  eyes  than  had  ever  enlightened  them 
before.  "  Come  this  way,  Archer ;  but  do  n't  tell  anybody. 
Hark !  do  you  hear  those  three  taps  at  the  window  ?  This 
is  the  old  woman  with  twelve  buns  for  me.  I  will  give  you 
one  whole  one  for  yourself,  if  you  will  unbar  the  window 
for  me." 

"Unbar  the  window!"  interrupted  Archer;  "no,  that  I 
won't,  for  you  or  the  gipsy  either ;  but  I  have  had  enough 
to  get  your  buns  without  that.  But  stay,  there  is  something 
of  more  consequence  than  your  twelve  buns  —  I  must  think 
for  ye  all,  I  see,  regularly." 

So  he  summoned  a  council,  and  proposed  that  every  one 
should  subscribe,  and  trust  the  subscription  to  the  gipsy,  to 
purchase  a  fresh  supply  of  provision.  Archer  laid  down  a 
guinea  of  his  own  for  his  subscription  ;  at  which  sight  all 
the  company  clapped  their  hands,  and  his  popularity  rose 
to  a  high  pitch  with  their  renewed  hopes  of  plenty.  Now, 
having  made  a  list  of  their  wants,  they  folded  the  money 
in  the  paper,  put  it  into  a  bag,  which  Archer  tied  to  a  long 
string,  and  having  broken  the  pane  of  glass  behind  the 
round  hole  in  the  window-shutter,  he  let  down  the  bag  to 
the  gipsy.  She  promised  to  be  punctual ;  and  having  filled 
the  bag  with  Fisher's  twelve  buns,  they  were  drawn  up  with 
triumph,  and  everybody  anticipated  the  pleasure  with  which 


470  BARRING     OUT. 

they  ah  juld  see  the  same  bag  drawn  up  at  dinner-time.  The 
buns  were  a  little  squeezed  in  being  drawn  through  the 
hole  in  the  window-shutter;  but  Archer  immediately  sawed 
out  a  piece  of  the  shutter,  and  broke  the  corresponding 
panes  in  each  of  the  other  windows  to  prevent  suspicion, 
and  to  make  it  appear  that  they  had  all  been  broken  to 
admit  the  air. 

What  a  pity  that  so  much  ingenuity  should  have  been 
employed  to  no  purpose  !  It  may  have  surprised  the  intel- 
ligent reader,  that  the  gipsy  was  so  punctual  to  her  promise 
to  Fisher  ;  but  we  must  recollect  that  her  apparent  integrity 
was  only  cunning ;  she  was  punctual,  that  she  might  be 
employed  again  —  that  she  might  be  intrusted  with  the  con- 
tribution which,  she  foresaw,  must  be  raised  among  the 
famishing  garrison.  No  sooner  had  she  received  the  money 
than  her  end  was  gained. 

Dinner-time  came  —  it  struck  three,  four,  five,  six.  They 
listened  with  hungry  ears,  but  no  signal  was  heard.  The 
morning  had  been  very  long,  and  Archer  had  in  vain  tried 
to  dissuade  them  from  devouring  the  remainder  of  the  pro- 
vision before  they  were  sure  of  a  fresh  supply.  And  now, 
those  who  had  been  the  most  confident,  were  the  most  impa- 
tient of  their  disappointment. 

Archer,  in  the  division  of  the  food,  had  attempted,  by  the 
most  scrupulous  exactness,  to  content  the  public ;  and  he 
was  both  astonished  and  provoked  to  perceive  that  his 
impartiality  was  impeached.  So  differently  do  people  judge 
in  different  situations.  He  was  the  first  person  to  aecuse 
his  master  of  injustice,  and  the  least  capable  of  bearing 
such  an  imputation  upon  himself  from  others.  He  now 
experienced  some  of  the  joys  of  power,  and  the  delight  of 
managing  unreasonable  numbers. 

"  Have  not  I  done  everything  I  could  to  please  ye  ?  Have 
not  I  spent  my  money  to  buy  ye  food  ?  Have  not  I  divided 
the  last  morsel  with  ye?  I  have  not  tasted  one  mouthful 
to-day  !  —  Did  not  I  set  to  work  for  ye  at  sunrise  ?    Did  Dot 


BARRING     OUT.  471 

1  lie  awake  all  night  for  ye  ?  Have  not  I  had  all  the  labour, 
all  the  anxiety  ?  Look  round  and  see  my  contrivances,  my 
work,  my  generosity  !  And,  after  all,  you  think  me  a  tyrant, 
because  I  want  you  to  have  common  sense.  Is  not  this  bun 
which  I  hold  in  my  hand  my  own  ?  Did  not  I  earn  it  by 
my  own  ingenuity  from  that  selfish  dunce"  (pointing  to 
Fisher),  "  who  could  never  have  gotten  one  of  his  twelve 
buns,  if  I  had  not  shown  him  how  ?  Eleven  of  them  he  has 
eaten  since  morning  for  his  own  share,  without  offering  any 
mortal  a  morsel ;  but  I  scorn  to  eat  even  that  which  is  justly 
my  own,  when  I  see  so  many  hungry  creatures  longing  for 
it.  I  was  not  going  to  touch  this  last  morsel  myself;  I  only 
begged  you  to  keep  it  till  supper-time,  when,  perhaps,  you  '11 
Want  it  more  ;  —  and  Townsend,  who  can't  bear  the  slightest 
thing  that  crosses  his  whims,  and  who  thinks  there's 
nothing  in  this  world  to  be  minded  but  his  own  diversions, 
calls  me  a  tyrant.  You  all  of  you  promised  to  obey  me  — 
the  first  thing  I  ask  you  to  do  for  your  own  good,  and  when, 
if  you  had  common  sense,  you  must  know  I  can  want 
nothing  but  your  good,  you  rebel  against  me.  Traitors  !  — 
Fools  !  —  Ungrateful  fools  !" 

Archer  walked  up  and  down,  unable  to  command  his 
enaction,  while,  for  the  moment,  the  discontented  multitude 
was  silenced. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  striking  his  hand  upon  the  little  boy's 
shoulder,  "  here's  the  only  one  among  ye  who  has  not  uttered 
one  word  of  reproach  or  complaint,  and  he  has  had  but  one 
bit  of  bread  —  a  bit  that  I  gave  him  myself  this  day. 
Here  I"  said  he,  snatching  the  bun,  which  nobody  had  dared 
to  touch,  "take  it  —  it's  mine  —  I  give  it  to  you,  though 
you  are  a  Greybeard  —  you  deserve  it  —  eat  it  —  and  be  an 
Archer.  Yc^i  shall  be  my  captain  —  will  you?"  said  he, 
lifting  him  up  in  his  arms  above  the  rest. 

"  I  like  you  now,"  said  the  little  boy,  courageously ;  "  but 
I  love  De  Grey  better;  he  has  always  been  my  friend,  and 
he  advised  me  never  to  call  myself  any  of  those  names, 


472  BARRIFG     OUT. 

Archer  )r  Greybeard,  and  so  I  won't;  though  I  am  shut  in 
here,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  love  Dr.  Middleton ; 
he  was  never  unjust  to  me;  and  I  dare  say  that  he  has  very 
good  reasons,  as  De  Grey  said,  for  forbidding  us  to  go  into 
that  house  —  besides,  it's  his  own." 

Instead  of  admiring  the  good  sense  and  steadiness  of  this 
lad,  Archer  suffered  Townsend  to  snatch  the  untasted  bun 
out  of  his  hands.  He  flung  it  at  the  hole  in  the  window, 
but  it  fell  back.  The  Archers  scrambled  for  it,  and  Fisher 
ate  it. 

Archer  saw  this,  and  was  sensible  that  he  had  not  done 
handsomely  in  suffering  it.  A  few  moments  ago  he  had 
admired  his  own  generosity,  and  though  he  had  felt  the 
injustice  of  others,  he  had  not  accused  himself  of  any.  He 
turned  away  from  the  little  boy,  and  sitting  down  at  one 
end  of  the  table,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  continued 
immoveable  in  this  posture  for  some  time. 

"Why!"  said  Townsend,  "it  was  an  excellent  joke!" 

"  Pooh !"  said  Fisher,  "  what  a  fool  to  think  so  much 
about  a  bun !" 

"  Never  mind,  Mr.  Archer,  if  you  are  thinking  about  me," 
said  the  little  boy,  trying  gently  to  pull  his  hands  from  his 
face. 

Archer  stooped  down,  and  lifted  him  upon  the  table ;  at 
which  sight  the  enraged  partisans  set  up  a  general  hiss  — 
"  He  has  forsaken  us  !  He  deserts  his  party  !  he  wants  to 
be  a  Greybeard  !  After  he  has  got  us  all  into  this  scrape, 
he  will  leave  us  !" 

"I  am  not  going  to  leave  you,"  cried  Archer.  "No  one 
shall  ever  accuse  me  of  deserting  my  party.  I  '11  stick  by 
the  Archers,  right  or  wrong,  I  tell  you,  to  the  last  moment: 
but  this  little  fellow  —  take  it  as  you  please  ;  mutiny  if  you 
will,  and  throw  me  out  of  the  window ;  call  me  traitor, 
coward,  Greybeard  —  this  little  fellow  is  worth  you  all  put 
together,  and  I'll  stand  by  him  against  whoever  dares  to 
lay  a  linger  upon  him  :  and  the  next  morsel  of  food  that  I 
3ee  shall  be  his ;  touch  him  who  dares." 


BARRING     OUT.  473 

The  commanding  air  with  which  Archer  spoke  and 
looked,  and  the  belief  that  the  little  boy  deserved  his  pro- 
tection, silenced  the  crowd  :  but  the  storm  was  only  hushed. 

No  sound  of  merriment  was  now  to  be  heard  —  no  battle- 
dore and  shuttlecock,  no  ball,  no  marbles.  Some  sat  in  a 
corner,  whispering  their  wishes,  that  Archer  would  unbar 
the  dcors  and  give  up.  Others,  stretching  their  arms  and 
gaping  as  they  sauntered  up  and  down  the  room,  wished  for 
air,  or  food,  or  water.  Fisher  and  his  nine,  who  had  such 
firm  dependence  upon  the  gipsy,  now  gave  themselves  up 
to  utier  despair.  It  was  eight  o'clock,  growing  darker  and 
darkoi.'  every  minute,  and  no  candles,  no  light,  could  they 
have.  The  prospect  of  another  long  dark  night  made  them 
still  inoie  discontented.  Townsend  at  the  head  of  the 
yawners,  and  Fisher  at  the  head  of  the  hungry  malecon- 
tents,  gathered  around  Archer,  and  a  few  yet  unconquered 
spirits,  demanding  how  long  he  meant  to  keep  them  in  this 
dark  dungeon,  and  whether  he  expected  that  they  should 
starve  themselves  to  death  for  his  sake. 

The  idea  of  giving  up  was  more  intolerable  to  Archer 
than  all  the  rest;  he  saw  that  the  majority,  his  own  con- 
vincing argument,  was  against  him.  He  was  therefore 
obliged  to  condescend  to  the  arts  of  persuasion.  He  flat- 
tered some  with  hopes  of  food  from  the  town-boys.  Some 
he  reminded  of  their  promises,  others  he  praised  for  former 
prowess;  and  others  he  shamed  by  the  repetition  of  their 
high  vaunts  in  the  beginning  of  the  business. 

It  was  at  length  resolved  that  at  all  events  they  would 
hold  out.  With  this  determination  they  stretched  them- 
selves again  to  sleep  for  the  second  night,  in  weak  and 
weary  obstinacy. 

Archer  slept  longer  and  more  soundly  than  usual  the  next 
morning,  and  when  he  awoke  he  found  his  hands  tied 
behind  him.  Three  or  four  boys  had  just  gotten  hold  of  his 
feet,  which  they  pressed  down,  while  the  tremoling  hands 
of  Fisher  were  fastening  the  cord  round  them.     With  all 


474  BARRING     OUT. 

the  force  which  rage  could  inspire,  Archer  struggled  and 
reared  to  "  his  Archers,''  —  his  friends,  —  his  party !  —  for 
help  against  the  traitors. 

But  all  kept  aloof.  Townsend,  in  particular,  stood  laugh- 
ing, and  looking  on.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Archer,  but 
really  you  look  so  droll !  —  All  alive  and  kicking !  —  Do  n't 
be  angry  —  I'm  so  weak  I  cannot  help  laughing  to-day." 

The  packthread  cracked  —  "  His  hands  are  free!  He's 
loose !"  cried  the  least  of  the  boys,  and  ran  away,  while 
Archer  leaped  up,  and  seizing  hold  of  Fisher  with  a  power- 
ful grasp,  sternly  demanded  what  he  meant  by  this. 

"  Ask  my  party,"  said  Fisher,  terrified  ;  "  they  set  me  on  ; 
ask  my  party." 

"  Your  party !"  cried  Archer,  with  a  look  of  ineffable 
contempt.  "  You  reptile  !  your  party  !  —  Can  such  a  thing 
as  you  have  a  party  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Fisher,  settling  his  collar,  which 
Archer,  in  his  surprise,  had  let  go  —  "To  be  sure — Why 
jot?  —  Any  man  who  chooses  it  may  have  a  party,  as  well 
as  yourself,  I  suppose  —  I  have  my  nine  Fishermen." 

At  these  words,  spoken  with  much  sullen  importance, 
Archer,  in  spite  of  his  vexation,  could  not  help  laughing  — 
'Fishermen!"  cried  he;  "Fishermen! " — "  And  why  not 
Fishermen  as  well  as  Archers  ?"  cried  they ;  "  one  party  is 
just  as  good  as  another ;  it  is  only  a  question  which  can 
get  the  upper-hand;  and  we  had  your  hands  tied  just 
low." 

"  That's  right,  Townsend,"  said  Archer  ;  "  laugh  on,  my 
«oy  !  Friend  or  foe,  it's  all  the  same  to  you.  I  know  how 
t,")  value  your  friendship  now.  You  are  a  mighty  good  fel- 
low when  the  sun  shines ;  but  let  a  storm  come,  and  how 
you  slink  aw^y !" 

At  this  instant  Archer  felt  the  difference  between  a  good 
companion  and  a  good  friend ;  a  difference  which  some  peo- 
ule  do  not  discover  till  too  late  in  life. 

"  Have  I  no  friend  ?  —  no  real  frier  d  among  ye  all  ?   And 


BARRING     OUT.  475 

could  ye  stand  by  and  see  my  hands  tied  behind  me,  like  a 
thief's?     What  signifies  such  a  party?  —  All  mute." 

"We  want  something  to  eat,"  answered  the  Fishermen. 
"  What  signifies  such  a  party,  indeed  ?  —  and  such  a  man- 
ager, who  can  do  nothing  for  one  Y* 

"And  have  I  done  nothing?" 

"Don't  let's  hear  any  more  prosing,"  said  Fisher;  "we 
are  too  many  for  you.  I've  advised  my  party,  if  they've 
a  mind  not  to  be  starved,  to  give  you  up  for  the  ringleader, 
as  you  were ;  and  Dr.  Middleton  will  let  us  all  off,  I  dare 
say." 

So,  depending  upon  the  sullen  silence  of  the  assembly, 
he  again  approached  Archer  with  a  cord.  A  cry  of,  "  No  ! 
no  !  no  !  do  n't  tie  him  !"  was  feebly  raised. 

Archer  stood  still ;  but  the  moment  Fisher  touched  him, 
he  knocked  him  down  to  the  ground ;  and  turning  to  the 
rest,  with  eyes  sparkling  with  indignation,  "  Archers !" 
cried  he. 

A  voice  at  this  instant  was  h3ard  at  the  door  —  it  was  De 
Greg's  voice  —  "I  have  a  large  basket  of  provision  for  your 
breakfast." 

A  general  shout  of  joy  was  sent  forth  by  the  voracious 
public  —  "Breakfast!  —  Provision!  —  A  large  basket!  — 
De  Grey  for  ever !  —  Huzza  !" 

De  Grey  promised,  upon  his  honour,  that  if  he  would 
unbar  the  door,  nobody  should  come  in  with  him,  and  no 
advantage  should  be  taken  of  them.  This  promise  was 
enough,  even  for  Archer. 

"I  will  let  him  in,"  said  he,  "  myself,  for  I'm  sure  he 
will  never  break  his  word." 

He  pulled  away  the  bar  —  the  door  opened  —  and  having 
bargained  for  the  liberty  of  Melsom  (the  little  boy  who  had 
been  shut  in  by  mistake),  De  Grey  pushed  in  his  basket  of 
provision,  and  locked  and  barred  the  door  instantly. 

Joy  and  gratitude  sparkled  in  every  face,  when  he 
unpacked  his  basket,  and  spread  the  table  with  a  Dlentiful 


476  BARRING     (   UT. 

breakfast.  A  hundred  questions  were  askel  him  at  onco 
—  "  Eat  first,"  said  he,  "  and  we  will  talk  afterward."  This 
business  was  quickly  despatched  by  people  who  had  not 
tasted  food  for  several  hours.  Their  curiosity  increased  as 
their  hunger  diminished.  "Who  sent  us  breakfast?  Does 
Dr.  Middleton  know  ?"  were  questions  reiterated  from  every 
mouth. 

"  He  does  know,"  answered  De  Grey ;  "  and  the  first 
thing  I  have  to  tell  you  is,  that  I  am  your  fellow-prisoner. 
I  am  to  stay  here  till  you  give  up.  This  was  the  only  con- 
dition on  which  Dr.  Middleton  would  allow  me  to  bring  you 
food,  and  he  will  allow  no  more." 

Every  one  looked  at  the  empty  basket.  But  Archer,  in 
whom  half-famished  party  spirit  revived  with  the  strength, 
he  had  gotten  from  his  breakfast,  broke  into  exclamations 
in  praise  of  De  Grey's  magnanimity,  as  he  now  imagined 
that  De  Grey  was  become  one  of  themselves. 

"And  you  will  join  us,  will  you? — that's  a  noble  fel- 
low !" 

"No,"  answered  De  Grey,  calmly,  "but  I  hope  to  per- 
suade, or  rather  to  convince  you,  that  you  ought  to  join  me." 

"  You  would  have  found  it  no  hard  task  to  persuade  or 
convince  us,  whichever  you  pleased,"  said  Townsend,  "  if 
you  had  appealed  to  Archers  fasting ;  but  Archers  feasting 
are  quite  other  animals.  Even  Caesar  himself,  after  break- 
fast, is  quite  another  thing !"  added  he,  pointing  to  Archer. 

"  You  may  speak  for  yourself,  Mr.  Townsend,"  replied 
the  insulted  hero,  "  but  not  for  me,  or  for  Archers  in  gene- 
ral, if  you  please.  We  unbarred  the  door  upon  the  faitb 
of  De  Grey's  promise  —  that  was  not  giving  up.  And  it 
would  have  been  just  as  difficult,  I  promise  you,  to  persuade 
or  convince  me  either,  that  I  should  give  up  against  my 
honour  before  breakfast,  as  after." 

This  spirited  speech  was  applauded  by  many,  who  had 
now  forgotten  the  feelings  of  famine.  Not  so  Fisher,  whose 
memory  was  upon  this  occasion  very  distinct. 


BARRIKG     CUT.  477 

"  What  nonsense,"  —  and  the  orator  paused  for  a  synony- 
mous expression,  but  none  was  at  hand  —  "what  nonsense 
and — nonsense  is  here! — Why,  don't  you  remember  that 
dinner-time,  supper-time,  and  breakfast-time  will  come 
again?  So,  what  signifies  mouthing  about  persuading  and 
convincing.  We  will  not  go  through  again  what  we  did 
yesterday.  Honour  me  no  honour,  I  do  n't  understand  it. 
I  'd  rather  be  flogged  at  once,  as  I  've  been  many 's  the  good 
time  for  a  less  thing.  I  say,  we  'd  better  all  be  flogged  at 
once,  which  must  be  the  end  of  it,  sooner  or  later,  than  wait 
here  to  be  without  dinner,  breakfast,  and  supper,  all  only 
because  Mr.  Archer  won't  give  up,  because  of  his  honoul 
and  nonsense !" 

Many  prudent  faces  among  the  Fishermen  seemed  to 
deliberate  at  the  close  of  this  oration,  in  which  the  argu- 
ments were  brought  so  "home  to  each  man's  business  and 
bosom." 

"  But,"  said  De  Grey,  "  when  we  yield,  I  hope  it  will  not 
be  merely  to  get  our  dinner,  gentlemen.  When  we  yield, 
Archer — " 

"  Do  n't  address  yourself  to  me,"  interrupted  Archer, 
struggling  with  his  pride;  'you  have  no  further  occasion 
to  try  to  win  me  —  I  have  10  power,  no  party,  you  see  !  — 
and  now  I  find  that  I  have  no  friends,  I  do  n't  care  what 
becomes  of  myself.  I  suppose  I  'm  to  be  given  up  as  ring- 
leader. Here  's  this  Fisher,  and  a  party  of  his  Fishermen, 
were  going  to  tie  me  hand  and  foot,  if  I  had  not  knocked 
him  down,  just  as  you  came  to  the  door,  De  Grey ;  and  now, 
perhaps,  you  will  join  Fisher's  party  against  me." 

De  Grey  was  going  to  assure  him  that  he  had  no  intention 
of  joining  any  party,  when  a  sudden  change  appeared  in 
Archer's  countenance. 

"  Silence  !"  cried  Archer,  in  an  imperious  tone  ;  and  there 
was  silence.  Some  one  was  heard  to  whistle  the  beginning 
of  a  tune  that  was  perfectly  new  to  everybody  present, 
except  to  Archer,  who  immediately  whi- tied  the  conclusion 


478  BARRING     OUT. 

"  There  i"  cried  lie,  looking  at  De  Grey  with  triumnh 
"that's  a  method  of  holding  secret  correspondence,  while 
a  prisoner,  which  I  learned  from  '  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion/ 
I  know  how  to  make  use  of  everything.  Holloa,  friend, 
are  you  there  at  last  ?"  cried  he,  going  to  the  ventilator. 

"  Yes,  but  we  are  barred  out  here." 

"Round  to  the  window,  then,  and  fill  your  bag;  we'll 
let  it  down,  my  lad,  in  a  trice  —  bar  me  out  who  can.'' 

Archer  let  down  the  bag  with  all  the  expedition  of  joy, 
and  it  was  filled  with  all  the  expedition  of  fear.  —  "Pull 
away  —  make  haste,"  said  the  voice  without ;  "  the  gardener 
will  come  from  dinner  else,  and  we  shall  be  caught.  He 
mounted  guard  all  yesterday  at  the  ventilator ;  and,  though 
I  watched  till  it  was  darker  than  pitch,  I  could  not  get  near 
you.  I  do  n't  know  what  has  taken  him  out  of  the  way 
now  —  make  haste,  pull  away." 

The  heavy  bag  was  soon  pulled  up  —  "Have  you  any 
more  ?"  said  Archer. 

"Yes,  plenty  —  let  down  quick:  I've  got  the  tailor's  bag 
full,  which  is  three  times  as  large  as  yours;  and  I've 
changed  clothes  with  the  tailor's  boy,  so  nobody  took  notice 
of  me  as  I  came  down  the  street. 

"  There's  my  own  cousin  !"  exclaimed  Archer,  —  "  there's 
a  noble  fellow !  —  there 's  my  own  cousin,  I  acknowledge. 
Fill  the  bag,  then." 

Several  times  the  long  bag  descended  and  ascended ;  and 
at  every  unlading  of  the  crane,  fresh  acclamations  were 
heard.  "  I  have  no  more I"  at  length  the  boy  with  the 
tailor's  bag  cried. 

"  Off  with  you,  then  ;  we've  enough,  thank  you." 

A  delightful  review  was  now  made  of  their  treasure ; 
busy  hands  arranged  and  sorted  the  heterogeneous  mass 
Archer,  in  the  height  of  his  glory,  looked  on,  the  acknow- 
ledged master  of  the  whole.  Townsend,  who,  in  prospe- 
rity as  in  adversity,  saw  and  enjoyed  tne  comic  foibles  of 
his  friends,  pushed  Te  Grey,  who  was  looking  on  with  a 


BARRING     OUT.  479 

more  good-natured  and  more  thoughtful  air:  "Friend,"  said 
he,  "  you.look  like  a  great  philosopher,  and  Archer  like  a 
great  hero." 

'•And  you,  Townsend,"  said  Archer,  "may  look  like  a 
wit,  if  you  will ;  but  you  will  never  be  a  hero." 

"No,  no,"  replied  Townsend,  "wits  are  never  heroes, 
because  they  are  wits  — you  are  out  of  your  wits,  and  there 
fore  may  set  up  for  a  hero." 

"  Laugh  and  welcome  —  I  'm  not  a  tyrant.  I  do  n't  want 
to  restrain  anybody's  wit ;  but  I  cannot  say  I  admire  puns." 

"  Nor  I  neither,"  said  the  time-serving  Fisher,  fiddling 
up  to  the  manager,  and  picking  the  ice  off  a  piece  of  plum- 
cake —  "nor  I  neither;  I  hate  puns.  I  can  never  under- 
stand Townsend's puns :  besides,  anybody  can  make  puns; 
and  one  doesn't  want  wit  either  at  all  times  ;  for  instance, 
when  one  is  going  to  settle  about  dinner,  or  business  of  con- 
sequence. Bless  us  all,  Archer,"  continued  he,  with  sudden 
familiarity,  "  what  a  sight  of  good  things  are  here !  I  'm  sure 
we  are  much  obliged  to  you  and  your  cousin  —  I  never 
thought  he  'd  have  come.  Why  now  we  can  hold  out  as 
long  as  you  please.  Let  us  see,"  said  he,  dividing  the  pro- 
vision upon  the  table,  "  we  can  hold  out  to-day,  and  all 
to-morrow,  and  part  of  next  day,  maybe.  Why  now  we 
may  defy  the  doctor  and  the  Greybeards  —  and  the  doctor 
will  surely  give  up  to  us,  for,  you  see,  he  knows  nothing  of 
all  this,  and  he  '11  think  we  are  starving  all  this  while  ;  and 
he  'd  be  afraid,  you  see,  to  let  us  starve  quite,  in  reality,  for 
three  whole  days,  because  of  what  would  be  said  in  the 
town.  My  aunt  Barbara,  for  one,  would  be  at  him,  long 
before  that  time  was  out ;  and,  besides,  you  know,  in  that 
there  case,  he'd  be  hanged  for  murder,  which  is  quite  ano- 
ther thing,  in  law,  from  a  barring  out,  you  know." 

Archer  had  not  given  to  this  harangue  all  the  attention 
which  it  deserved ;  for  his  eye  was  fixed  upon  De  Grey 
"What  is  De  Grey  thinking  of?"  he  asked  impatiently. 

"I  am  thinking,"   said  De  Grey,   "that  Dr.  Middleton 


480  BARRING     OUT. 

must  believe  that  I  have  betrayed  his  confidence  in  rare 
The  gardener  was  ordered  away  from  his  watch-post  for  one 
half-hour  when  I  was  admitted ;  this  half-hour  the  gardener 
has  made  nearly  an  hour.  I  never  would  have  come  among 
you  if  I  had  foreseen  all  this.  Dr.  Middleton  trusted  me, 
and  now  he  will  repent  of  his  confidence  in  me." 

"  De  Grey/'  cried  Archer,  with  energy,  "  he  shall  not 
repent  of  his  confidence  in  you,  nor  shall  you  repent  of 
coming  among  us  ;  you  shall  find  that  we  have  some  honour 
as  well  as  yourself:  and  I  will  take  care  of  your  honour,  as 
if  it  were  my  own  !" 

"  Hey-day  !"  interrupted  Townsend,  "  are  heroes  allowed 
to  change  sides,  pray?  And  does  the  chief  of  the  Archers 
stand  talking  sentiments  to  the  chief  of  the  Greybeards  ? 
In  the  middle  of  his  own  party  too !" 

"  Party  I"  repeated  Archer,  disdainfully,  "  I  have  done 
with  parties  !  I  see  what  parties  are  made  of.  I  have  felt 
the  want  of  a  friend,  and  I  am  determined  to  make  one  if 
I  can." 

"  That  you  may  do,"  said  De  Grey,  stretching  out  his 
hand. 

"  Unbar  the  doors  !  unbar  the  windows  !  —  Away  with  all 
these  things  !  —  I  give  up  for  De  Grey's  sake :  he  shall  not 
lose  his  credit  on  my  account." 

"  No,"  said  De  Grey,  "  you  shall  not  give  up  for  my  sake." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  give  up  to  do  what  is  honourable,"  said 
Archer 

"  Why  not  to  do  what  is  reasonable  ?"  said  De  Grey. 
Reasonable!     0,  the  first   thing  that  a  man  of  spirit 
should  think  of  is,  what  is  honourable." 

"  But  how  will  he  find  out  what  is  honourable,  unless  he 
can  reason  ?" 

"  0,"  said  Archer,  "  his  own  feelings  always  tell  him  what 
is  honourable." 

"  Have  not  your  feelings  changed  within  these  few  hours  0,> 

"  Yes,    with    circumstances ;    but,    right    or  wrong,   as 


BARRING     OUT.  481 

xong  as  I  think  it  honourable  to  do  so  and  so,  I  am  satis- 
fied." 

"  But  you  cannot  think  anything  honourable,  or  the  con- 
trary, without  reasoning ;  and  as  to  what  you  call  feeling, 
it's  only  a  quick  sort  of  reasoning." 

"  The  quicker  the  better,"  said  Archer. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  De  Grey ;  "  we  are  apt  to  reason 
best  when  we  are  not  in  quite  so  great  a  hurry." 

"But,"  said  Archer,  "we  have  not  always  time  enough 
to  reason  at  first" 

"You  must,  however,  acknowledge,"  replied  De  Grey, 
smiling,  "  that  no  man  but  a  fool  thinks  it  honourable  to  be 
in  the  wrong  at  last.  Is  it  not,  therefore,  best  to  begin  by 
reasoning,  to  find  out  the  right  at  first  ?" 

"  To  be  sure." 

"And  did  you  reason  with  yourself  at  first?  —  and  did 
you  find  out  that  it  was  right  to  bar  Dr.  Middleton  out  of 
his  own  schoolroom,  because  he  desired  you  not  to  go  into 
one  of  his  own  houses?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  should  never  have  thought  of  heading  a  bar- 
ring out,  if  he  had  not  shown  partiality ;  and  if  you  had 
flown  into  a  passion  with  me  openly,  at  once,  for  pulling 
down  your  scenery,  which  would  have  been  quite  natural, 
and  not  have  gone  slyly  and  forbid  us  the  house,  out  of 
revenge,  there  would  have  been  none  of  this  work." 

"Why,"  said  De  Grey,  "should  you  suspect  me  of  such 
a  mean  action,  when  you  have  never  seen  or  known  me  do 
anything  mean,  and  when  in  this  instance  you  have  no 
proofs  ?" 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  word  and  honour  now,  De  Grey, 
before  everybody  here,  that  you  did  not  do  what  I  sus- 
pected?" 

"  I  do  assure  you,  upon  my  honour,  I  never,  directly  or 
indirectly,  spoke  to  Dr.  Middleton  about  the  play-house." 

"  Then,"  said  Archer,  "  I  'm  as  glad  as  if  I  had  found  a 
thousand  pounds  1     Now  you  are  my  friend,  indeed." 
31 


482  BARBING     OUT. 

"  And  Dr.  Middleton  —  why  should  you  suspect  him  with- 
out reason,  any  more  than  me  ?"  ' 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Archer,  "  he  is  ycur  friend,  and  yon 
are  right  to  defend  him  ;  and  I  won't  say  another  word 
against  him  :  will  that  satisfy  you?" 

"Not  quite." 

"  Not  quite  !     Then,  indeed,  you  are  unreasonable." 

"  No,  for  I  do  n't  wish  you  to  yield  out  of  friendship  to 
me,  any  more  than  to  honour.  If  you  yield  to  reason,  you 
will  be  governed  by  reason  another  time." 

"Well,  but  then  don't  triumph  over  me,  because  you 
have  the  best  side  of  the  argument." 

"  Not  I !  —  how  can  I  ?"  said  De  Grey ;  "  for  now  you 
are  on  the  best  side  as  well  as  myself,  are  not  you  ?  So  we 
may  triumph  together." 

"  You  are  a  good  friend !"  said  Archer,  and  with  great 
eagerness  he  pulled  down  the  fortifications,  while  every 
hand  assisted.  The  room  was  restored  to  order  in  a  few 
minutes  ;  the  shutters  were  thrown  open,  the  cheerful  light 
let  in.  The  windows  were  thrown  open,  and  the  first  feel- 
ing of  the  fresh  air  was  delightful.  The  green  play-ground 
appeared  before  them,  and  the  hopes  of  exercise  and  liberty 
brightened  the  countenances  of  these  voluntary  prisoners. 

But,  alas  !  they  were  not  yet  at  liberty  !  The  idea  of  Dr. 
Middleton  and  the  dread  of  his  vengeance,  smote  their 
hearts !  When  the  rebels  had  sent  an  ambassador  with 
their  surrender,  they  stood  in  pale  and  silent  suspense,  wait- 
ing for  their  doom.  "  Ah  I"  said  Fisher,  looking  up  at  the 
broken  panes  in  the  windows,  "the  doctor  will  think  the 
most  of  that  —  he'll  never  forgive  us  for  that." 

"Hush!  here  he  comes!"  —  His  steady  step  was  heard 
approaching  nearer  and  nearer!  Archer  threw  open  the 
door,  and  Dr.  Middlet  m  entered.  Fisher  instantly  fell  on 
his  knees. 

"It  is  no  delight  to  me  to  see  people  on  their  knees: 
stand  up,  Mr.  Fisher.  I  hope  you  are  all  conscious  that 
you  have  done  wrong." 


BARRING     OUT.  483 

M  Sir  "  said  Archer,  "  they  are  conscious  that  they  have 
done  ■wrong,  and  so  am  I.  '  I  am  the  ringleader  —  punish 
me  as  you  think  proper  —  I  submit.  Your  punishments, 
your  vengeance,  ought  to  fall  on  me  alone." 

"  Sir,"  said  Dr.  Middleton,  calmly,  "  I  perceive  that, 
whatever  else  you  may  have  learned  in  the  course  of  your 
education,  you  have  not  been  taught  the  meaning  of  the 
word  punishment.  Punishment  and  vengeance  do  not,  with 
us,  mean  the  same  thing.  Punishment  is  pain  given  with 
the  reasonable  hope  of  preventing  those  on  whom  it  is 
inflicted  from  doing  in  future  what  will  hurt  themselves  or 
others.  Vengeance  never  looks  to  the  future,  but  it  is  the 
expression  of  anger  for  an  injury  that  is  past.  I  feel  no 
anger  —  you  have  done  me  no  injury." 

Here  many  of  the  little  boys  looked  timidly  up  at  the 
windows. 

"  Yes,  I  see  that  you  have  broken  my  windows ;  that  is 
a  small  evil." 

"  0,  sir,  how  good !  how  merciful !"  exclaimed  those  who 
had  been  most  panic-struck  ;  "  he  forgives  us  !" 

"  Stay,"  resumed  Dr.  Middleton,  "  I  cannot  forgive  you 
—  I  shall  never  revenge,  but  it  is  my  duty  to  punish.  You 
have  rebelled  against  the  just  authority  which  is  necessary 
to  conduct  and  govern  you,  while  you  have  not  sufficient 
reason  to  conduct  and  govern  yourselves.  Without  obedi- 
ence to  your  master,  as  children,  you  cannot  be  educated. 
Without  obedience  to  the  laws,"  added  he,  turning  to 
Archer,  "  as  men,  you  cannot  be  suffered  in  society.  You, 
sir,  think  yourself  a  man,  I  observe ;  and  you  think  it  a 
part  of  a  man  not  to  submit  to  the  will  of  another.  I  have 
no  pleasure  in  making  others,  whether  men  or  children, 
submit  to  my  will ;  but  my  reason  and  experience  are  supe- 
rior to  yours  —  your  parents  at  least  think  so,  or  they  would 
not  have  intrusted  me  with  the  care  of  your  education.  As 
long  as  they  do  intrust  you  to  my  care,  and  as  long  as  I 
nave  auy  hopes  of  making  you  wiser  and  better  by  punish- 


484  BARRING     OUT. 

ment,  I  shall  steadily  inflict  it  whenever  I  judge  it  to  h% 
necessary,  and  I  judge  it  to  be  necessary  now.  This  is  a 
long  sermon,  Mr.  Archer,  not  preached  to  show  my  own 
eloquence,  but  to  convince  your  understanding.  Now,  as 
to  your  punishment." 

"Name  it,  sir/'  said  Archer;  "whatever  it  is,  I  will 
cheerfully  submit  to  it." 

"  Name  it  yourself,"  said  Dr.  Middleton,  "  and  show  me 
that  you  now  understand  the  nature  of  punishment." 

Archer,  proud  to  be  treated  like  a  reasonable  creature, 
and  sorry  that  he  had  behaved  like  a  foolish  schoolboy,  was 
silent  for  some  time,  but  at  length  replied,  that  he  would 
rather  not  name  his  own  punishment.  He  repeated,  how- 
ever, that  he  trusted  he  should  bear  it  well,  whatever  it 
might  be. 

"  1  shall  then,"  said  Dr.  Middleton,  "  deprive  you  for  two 
months  of  pocket-money,  as  you  have  had  too  much,  and 
have  made  a  bad  use  of  it." 

"  Sir,"  said  Archer,  "  I  brought  five  guineas  with  me  to 
school  —  this  guinea  is  all  that  I  have  left." 

Dr.  Middleton  received  the  guinea  which  Archer  offeied 
him  with  a  look  of  approbation,  and  told  him  that  it  should 
be  applied  to  the  repairs  of  the  schoolroom.  The  rest  of 
the  boys  waited  in  silence  for  the  doctor's  sentence  against 
them,  but  not  with  those  looks  of  abject  fear  with  which 
boys  usually  expect  the  sentence  of  a  schoolmaster. 

"  You  shall  return  from  the  play-ground,  all  of  you,"  said 
Dr.  Middleton,  "  one  quarter  of  an  hour  sooner,  for  two 
months  to  come,  than  the  rest  of  your  companions.  A  bell 
shall  ring  at  the  appointed  time  I  give  you  an  opportu- 
nity of  recovering  my  confidence  by  your  punctuality." 

"  0,  sir,  we  will  come  the  instant,  the  very  instant  the 
bell  rings  —  you  shall  have  confidence  in  us,"  cried  they, 
eagerly. 

"  I  deserve  your  confidence,  I  hope,"  said  Dr.  Middleton, 
"  for  it  is  mj  first  wish  to  make  you  all  happy.  — You  do 


BARBING     OUT.  485 

not  know  ihe  pain  that  it  has  cost  me,  i)  deprive  you  of 
.tood  for  so  many  hours." 

Here  the  boys,  with  one  accord,  ran  to  the  place  where 
they  had  deposited  their  last  supplies.  Archer  delivered 
them  up  to  the  doctor,  proud  to  show  that  they  were  not 
reduced  to  obedience  merely  by  necessity. 

"  The  reason/'  resumed  Dr.  Middleton,  having  now 
returned  to  the  usual  benignity  of  his  manner,  — "  the 
reason  why  I  desired  that  none  of  you  should  go  to  that 
building"  (pointing  out  of  the  window)  "was  this:  I  had 
been  informed  that  a  gang  of  gipsies  had  slept  there  the 
night  before  I  spoke  to  you,  one  of  whom  was  dangerously 
ill  of  a  putrid  fever.  I  did  not  choose  to  mention  my  rea- 
son to  you  at  that  time,  for  fear  of  alarming  you  or  your 
friends.  I  have  had  the  place  cleaned,  and  you  may  return 
to  it  when  you  please.  The  gipsies  were  yesterday  removed 
from  the  town." 

"  De  Grey,  you  were  in  the  right,"  whispered  Archer, 
"  and  it  was  I  that  was  unjust." 

"The  old  woman,"  continued  the  doctor,  "whom  you 
employed  to  buy  food,  has  escaped  the  fever,  but  she  has 
not  escaped  a  jail,  whither  she  was  sent  yesterday,  for  hav- 
ing defrauded  you  of  your  money. 

"  Mr.  Fisher,"  said  Dr.  Middleton,  "  as  to  you,  I  shall  not 
punish  you !  —  I  have  no  hope  of  making  you  either  wiser 
or  better.  —  Do  you  know  this  paper?" 

The  paper  appeared  to  be  a  bill  for  candles  and  a  tinder- 
box. 

"  I  desired  him  to  buy  those  things,  sir,"  said  Archer, 
colouring. 

"  And  did  you  desire  him  to  pay  for  them  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Archer,  "  he  had  half  a  crown  on  purpose  to 
pay  for  them." 

"  I  know  he  had ;  but  he  chose  to  apply  it  to  his  own 
private  use,  and  gave  it  to  the  gipsy,  to  buy  twelve  buns  for 
his  own  eating.     To  obtain  credit  for  the  tinder-bcx  and 


486  BARRING     OUT. 

candles,  he  made  use  of  this  name,"  said  he,  turning  to  the 
other  side  of  the  bill,  and  pointing  to  De  Grey's  name, 
which  was  written  at  the  end  of  a  copy  of  one  of  De  Grey's 
exercises. 

"  I  assure  you,  sir/'  cried  Archer — 

"  You  need  not  assure  me,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Middleton  ;  "  I 
cannot  suspect  a  boy  of  your  temper  of  having  any  part  in 
so  base  an  action. — "When  the  people  in  the  shop  refused 
to  let  Mr.  Fisher  have  the  things  without  paying  for  them, 
he  made  use  of  De  Grey's  name,  who  was  known  there. 
Suspecting  some  mischief,  however,  from  the  purchase  of  the 
tinder-box,  the  shopkeeper  informed  me  of  the  circumstance. 
Nothing  in  this  whole  business  gave  me  half  so  much  pain, 
as  I  felt  for  a  moment  when  I  suspected  that  De  Grey  was 
concerned  in  it." 

A  loud  cry,  in  which  Archer's  voice  was  heard  most  dis- 
tinctly, declared  De  Grey's  innocence.  Dr.  Middleton  looked 
round  at  their  eager  honest  faces  with  benevolent  approba- 
tion. 

"Archer,"  said  he,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  "I  am 
heartily  glad  to  see  that  you  have  gotten  the  better  of  your 
party  spirit  —  I  wish  you  may  keep  such  a  friend  as  you 
have  now  beside  you.  One  such  friend  is  worth  two  such 
parties."  -       - 

"As  for  you,  Mr.  Fisher  —  depart  —  you  must  never 
return  hither  again." 

In  vain  he  solicited  Archer  and  De  Grey  to  intercede  for 
him.  Everybody  turned  away  with  contempt,  and  he 
sneaked  out,  whimpering,  in  a  doleful  vobe,  "What  shall 
I  say  to  my  aunt  Barbara  1" 


Extract  from  the  Courier,  May,  1799. 


ETON    MONTEM. 

"Yesterday  this  triennial  ceremony  took  place,  with 
which  the  public  are  too  well  acquainted  to  require  a  par- 
ticular description.  A  collection,  called  Salt,  is  taken  from 
the  public,  which  forms  a  purse,  to  support  the  Captain  of 
the  School  in  his  studies  at  Cambridge.  This  collection  is 
made  by  the  scholars,  dressed  in  fancy  dresses,  all  round 
the  country. 

"  At  eleven  o'clock,  the  youths  being  assembled  in  their 
habiliments  at  the  College,  the  Koyal  Family  set  off  from 
the  Castle  to  see  them,  and,  after  walking  round  the  Court 
Yard,  they  proceeded  to  Salt  Hill  in  the  following  order : — 

"His  Majesty,  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
and  the  Earl  of  Uxbridge. 

"  Their  Royal  Highnesses  the  Dukes  of  Kent  and  Cum- 
berland, Earl  Morton,  and  General  Gwynne,  all  on  horse- 
back, dressed  in  the  Windsor  uniform,  except  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  who  wore  a  suit  of  dark  blue,  and  a  brown  surtout 
over. 

"  Then  followed  the  Scholars,  preceded  by  the  Marechal 
Serjeants,  the  Musicians  of  the  Staffordshire  Band,  and 
Mr.  Ford,  Captain  of  the  Seminary,  the  Serjeant-Major, 
Serjeants,  Colonels,  Corporals,  Musicians,"  Ensign,  Lieute- 
nant, Steward,  Salt- Bearers,  Polemen,  and  Runners. 

(487) 


488  ETON     MONTEM. 

"The  cava^ade  being  brought  up  by  Her  Majesty  and 
her  amiable  daughters  in  two  carriages,  and  a  numerous 
company  of  equestrians  and  pedestrians,  all  eager  to  behold 
their  Sovereign  and  his  family.  Among  the  former  Lady 
Lade  was  foremost  in  the  throng ;  only  two  others  dared 
venture  their  persons  on  horseback  in  such  a  multitude. 

"The  King  and  Royal  Family  were  stopped  on  Eton 
Bridge  by  Messrs.  Young  and  Mansfield,  the  Salt-Bearers, 
to  whom  their  Majesties  delivered  their  customary  donation 
of  fifty  guineas  each. 

"  At  Salt  Hill,  His  Majesty,  with  his  usual  affability,  took 
upon  himself  to  arrange  the  procession  round  the  Royal 
carriages ;  and  even  when  the  horses  were  taken  off,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  Duke  of  Kent,  fastened  the  traces 
round  the  pole  of  the  coaches,  to  prevent  any  inconveni- 
ence. 

"  An  exceeding  heavy  shower  of  rain  coming  on,  the 
Prince  took  leave,  and  went  to  the  Windmill  Inn  till  it  sub- 
sided. The  King  and  his  attendants  weathered  it  out  in 
their  great-coats. 

"  After  the  young  gentlemen  had  walked  round  the  car- 
riage, Ensign  Vince,  and  the  Salt-Bearers,  proceeded  to  the 
summit  of  the  hill ;  but,  the  wind  being  boisterous,  he  could 
not  exhibit  his  dexterity  in  displaying  his  flag,  and  the 
space  being  too  small  before  the  carriages,  from  the  con- 
course of  spectators,  the  King  kindly  acquiesced  in  not 
having  it  displayed  under  such  inconvenience. 

"  Their  Majesties  and  the  Princesses  then  returned  home, 
the  King  occasionally  stopping  to  converse  with  the  Dean 
of  Windsor,  the  Earl  of  Harrington,  and  other  Noblemen. 

"  The  Scholars  partook  of  an  elegant  dinner  at  the  Wind- 
mill Inn,  and  in  the  evening  walked  on  Windsor-Terrace. 

"  Their  Royal  Highnesses  the  Prince  of  Wales  and  Duke 
of  Cumberland,  after  taking  leave  of  their  Majesties,  set. 
off  for  town,  and  honoured  the  Opera  House  with  their  pre- 
sence in  the  evening. 


ETON     MONTEM.  489 

"The  profit  arising  from  the  Salt  collected,  according  tc 
account,  amounted  to  above  800Z. 

"  The  Stadtholder,  the  Duke  of  Gordon,  Lord  and  Lady 
Melbourne,  Viscount  Brome,  and  a  numerous  train  of  fash- 
ionable Nobility  were  present. 

"  The  following  is  an  account  of  their  dresses,  made,  as 
usual,  very  handsomely,  by  Mrs.  Snow,  milliner,  of  Wind- 
sor:— 

"  Mr.  Ford,  Captain,  with  eight  gentlemen  to  attend  him 
as  servitors. 
"  Mr.  Sergeant,  Marechal. 
"  Mr.  Brandrith,  Colonel. 
"  Mr.  Plumtree,  Lieutenant. 
"Mr.  Yince,  Ensign. 
"  Mr.  Young,  College  Salt-Bearer :  white  and  gold  dress, 

rich  satin  bag,  covered  with  gold  netting. 
"Mr.  Mansfield,  Oppident,  white,   purple,  and   orange 
dress,  trimmed  with  silver ;  rich  satin  bag,  purple 
and  silver :  each  carrying  elegant  poles,  with  gold 
and  silver  cord. 
"Mr.  Keity,  yellow  and  black  velvet,  helmet  trimmed 

with  silver. 
"  Mr.  Bartelot,  plain  mantle  and  sandals,  Scotch  bonnet, 

a  very  Douglas. 
"  Mr.  Knapp,  flesh-colour  and  blue  ;  Spanish  hat  and  fea- 
thers. 
"  Mr.  Ripley,  rose-colour ;  helmet. 

"Mr.  Islip  (being  in  mourning),  a  scarf;  helmet,  black 
velvet ;  and  white  satin. 
"  Mr.  Tomkins,  violet  and  silver ;  helmet. 
"  Mr.  Thackeray,  lilac  and  silver ;  Roman  cap 
"  Mr.  Drury,  Mazarin  blue  ;  fancy  cap. 
"  Mr.  Davis,  slate-colour  and  straw. 
"  Mr.  Routh,  pink  and  silver ;  Spanish  hat. 
"  Mr.  Curtis,  purple  ;  fancy  cap. 
"  Mr  Lloyd,  blue ;  ditto. 


490  BTON     MONTEM. 

"At  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremony,  the  Royal  family 
returned  to  "Windsor,  and  the  boys  were  all  sumptuously 
entertained  at  the  tavern,  at  Salt  Hill.  About  six  in  the 
evening  all  the  boys  returned  in  the  order  of  procession,  and 
marching  round  the  great  square  of  Eton,  were  dismissed. 
The  captain  then  paid  his  respects  to  the  Royal  family,  at 
the  Queen's  Lodge,  Windsor,  previous  to  his  departure  for 
King's  College,  Cambridge,  to  defray  which  expense  the 
produce  of  the  Montem  was  presented  to  him. 

"  The  day  concluded  by  a  brilliant  promenade  of  beauty, 
rank,  and  fashion,  on  Windsor  Terrace,  enlivened  by  the 
performance  of  several  bands  of  music. 

"  The  origin  of  the  procession  is  from  the  custom  by 
which  the  Manor  was  held. 

"  The  custom  of  hunting  the  Ram  belonged  to  Eton  Col- 
lege, as  well  as  the  custom  of  Salt ;  but  it  was  discontinued 
by  Dr.  Crook,  late  Dean  of  Ely.  Now  this  custom  we  know 
to  have  been  entered  on  the  register  of  the  Royal  Abbey  of 
Bee,  in  Normandy,  as  one  belonging  to  the  Manor  of  East 
or  Great  Wrotham  in  Norfolk,  given  by  Ralph  De  Toni  to 
the  Abbey  of  Bee,  and  was  as  follows :  —  When  the  harvest 
was  finished,  the  tenants  were  to  have  half  an  acre  of  bar- 
ley, and  a  ram  let  loose,  and  if  they  caught  him,  he  was 
their  own  to  make  merry  with,  but  if  he  escaped  from  them, 
he  was  the  lord's.  The  Etonians,  in  order  to  secure  the 
ram,  houghed  him  in  the  Irish  fashion,  and  then  attacked 
him  with  great  clubs.  The  cruelty  of  this  proceeding 
brought  it  into  disuse,  and  now  it  exists  no  longer.  —  See 
Register  of  the  Royal  Abbey  of  Bee,  folio  58. 

"  After  the  dissolution  of  the  alien  priories,  in  1414,  by 
the  Parliament  of  Leicester,  they  remained  in  the  Crown 
till  Henry  VI.,  who  gave  Wrotham  Manor  to  Eton  College ; 
and  if  the  Eton  Fellows  would  search,  they  would  perhaps 
find  the  Manor  in  their  possessicn  that  was  held  by  the  cus- 
tom of  Salt " 


ETON     MONTEM.  491 


MEN. 


^  Young  Gentlemen  of  Eton,  from  17  to  19 
years  of  age. 


Alderman  Bursal,  Father  of  young  Bursal. 

Lord  John 

Talbot, 

Wheeler, 

Bursal, 

Rory  O'Ryan, 

Mr.  Newington,  Landlord  of  the  Inn  at  Salt  Hill. 

Farmer  Hearty. 

A  Waiter,  and  Crowd  of  Eton  Lads. 

WOMEN. 

The  Marchioness  of  Pieroefield,  Mother  of  Lord  John. 
Lady  Violetta,  her  Daughter,  a  Child  of  six  or  seven  yean 

old. 
Mrs.  Talbot. 

Louisa  Talbot,  her  Daughter. 
Miss  Bursal,  Daughter  to  the  Alderman. 
Mrs.  Newington,  Landlady  of  the  Inn  at  Salt  nill 
Sally,  s,  Chambermaid. 
Patty,  a  Country  Girl. 
Pipe  Mid  Tabour,  and  Dance  of  Peasants. 


ETON   MONTEM 


ACT  I.  — SCENE  I. 

The  Bar  of  the  Windmill  Inn,  at  Sa'J,  Hill, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Newington,  the  Landlord  and  Landlady. 

Landlady.  'Tis  an  impossibility,  Mr.  Newington,  and 
that  *8  enough.  Say  no  more  about  it ;  'T  is  an  unpossi- 
bility  in  the  natur  of  things.  (She  ranges  jellies,  <Scc,  in 
the  Bar.)  And  pray  do  take  your  old-fashioned  tankard, 
Mr.  Newington,  from  among  my  jellies  and  confectiona- 
ries. 

Landlord,  (takes  his  tankard  and  drinks.)  Anything  for 
a  quiet  life.  If  it  is  an  unpossibility,  I  've  no  more  to  say ; 
only,  for  the  soul  of  me,  I  can't  see  the  great  unpossibility, 
wife. 

Landlady.  Wife,  indeed  !  —  Wife  !  —  wife  !  —  wife  every 
minute. 

Landlord.  Heyday !  Why,  what  a  plague  would  you 
have  me  call  you  ?  The  other  day  you  quarrelled  with  me 
for  calling  you  Mrs.  Landlady. 

Landlady.  To  be  sure  I  did,  and  very  proper  in  me  I 
should.  I've  turned  off  three  waiters  and  five  chamber- 
maids already  for  screaming  after  me  Mrs.  Landlady  I  Mrs. 
Landlady!     But  'tis  all  your  ill  manners. 

Landlord.  Ill  manners !  Why,  if  I  may  be  so  bold,  if 
you  are  not  Mrs.  Landlady,  in  :he  name  of  wonder  what 
are  you  ? 

(492) 


ETON     MONTEM.  493 

Landlady.  Mrs.  Newin /ton,  Mr.  Newington. 
Landlord,    [drinks.)    Mrs.    Newington,    Mr.    Newington 
drinks  your  health  ;  for  I  suppose  I  must  not  be  landlord 
no  more  in  my  own  house,  (shrugs.) 

Landlady.  0,  as  to  that,  I  have  no  objections  nor  impedi- 
ments to  your  being  called  Landlord:  you  look  it,  and 
become  it  very  proper. 

Landlord.  Why,  yes,  indeed,  thank  my  tankard,  I  do  look 
it,  and  become  it,  and  am  nowise  ashamed  of  it:  but  every 
one  to  their  mind,  as  you,  wife,  don't  fancy  being  called 
Mrs.  Landlady. 

Landlady.  To  be  sure  I  do  n't.  Why,  when  folks  hear 
the  old-fashioned  cry  of  Mrs.  Landlady !  Mrs.  Landlady ! 
what  do  they  expect,  think  you,  to  see,  but  an  overgrown, 
fat,  featherbed  of  a  woman,  coming  waddling  along  with 
her  thumbs  sticking  on  each  side  of  her  apron,  o'  this  fash- 
ion ?  Now,  to  see  me  coming  nobody  would  take  me  to  be 
a  landlady ! 

Landlord.  Very  true,  indeed,  wife  —  Mrs.  Newington,  I 
mean  —  I  ask  pardon  ;  but  now  to  go  on  with  what  we  were 
raying  about  the  unpossibility  of  letting  that  old  lady  and 
the  civil-spoken  young  lady  there  above,  have  them  there 
rooms  for  another  day. 

Landlady.  Now,  Mr.  Newington,  let  me  hear  no  more 
about  that  old  gentlewoman  and  that  civil-spoken  young 
lady.  Fair  words  cost  nothing;  and  I've  a  notion  that's 
the  cause  they  are  so  plenty  with  the  young  lady.  Neither 
o'  them,  I  take  it,  by  what  they've  ordered  since  their  com- 
ing into  the  house,  are  such  grand  folk  that  one  need  be  so 
petticular  about  them. 

Landlord.  Why,  thev  came  only  in  a  chaise  and  pair,  to 
be  sure  ;  I  can't  deny  that. 

Landlady.  But,  bless  my  stars !  what  signifies  talking? 
Don't  you  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  Mr.  Newington,  that 
to-morrow  is  Eton  Montera ;  and  that  if  we  had  twenty 
times  as  many  rooms,  and  as  many  more  to  the  back  of 


494  ETON     MONTEM. 

them,  it  would  not  be  one  too  many  for  all  the  company 
we  've  a  right  to  expect,  and  those  the  highest  quality  o'  the 
land?  Nay,  what  do  I  talk  of  to-morrow?  isn't  my  lady 
Piercefield  and  suite  expected?  and  moreover,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bursal  fa  to  be  here,  and  will  call  for  as  much  in  an  hour  as 
your  civil-spoken  young  lady  in  a  twelvemonth,  I  reckon. 
So,  Mr.  Newington,  if  you  do  n't  think  proper  to  go  up  and 
inform  the  ladies  above,  that  the  D<  lphin  rooms  are  not  for 
them,  I  must  speak  myself,  though  'tis  a  thing  I  never  do 
when  I  can  help  it. 

Landlord,  (aside.)  She  not  like  to  speak !  —  (aloud)  My 
dear,  you  can  speak  a  power  better  than  I  can :  so  take  it 
all  upon  yourself,  if  you  please,  for,  old-fashioned  as  I  and 
my  tankard  here  be,  I  can't  make  a  speech  that  borders  on 
the  uncivil  order  to  a  lady,  like  for  the  life  and  lungs  of 
me.  So,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  do  you  go  up,  Mrs.  New- 
ington. 

Landlady.  And  so  I  will,  Mr.  Newington.  Help  ye ! 
Civilities  and  rarities  are  out  o'  season  for  them  that  can't 
pay  for  them  in  this  world,  and  very  proper. 

[Exit  Landlady. 

Landlord.  And  very  proper !  Ha !  who  comes  yonder  ? 
The  Eton  chap,  who  wheedled  me  into  lending  him  my  best 
hunter  last  year,  and  was  the  ruination  of  him :  but  that 
must  be  paid  for,  wheedle  or  no  wheedle  ;  and,  for  the  mat- 
ter of  wheedling,  I  'd  stake  this  here  Mr.  Wheeler,  that  is 
making  up  to  ma,  do  you  see,  against  e'er  a  man,  boy,  or 
hobbledehoy  in  all  Eton,  London,  or  Christendom,  let  the 
other  be  who  he  will. 

Enter  Wheeusr. 

Wheel.  A  fine  day,  Mr.  Newington. 

Landlord.  A  fine  day,  Mr.  Wheeler. 

Wheel.  And  I  hope,  for  your  sake,  we  may  have  as  fine  a 
day  for  the  Montem  to-morrow.  It  will  be  a  pretty  penny 
in  your  pocket'     Why  all  the  world  will  be  here,   and 


ETON     MONTEM.  495 

(looking  round  at  the  jellies,  &c.)  so  much  the  better  fc  r  them  • 
tor  here  are  good  things  enough,  and  enough  for  them. 
And  here 's  the  best  thing  of  all,  the  good  tankard,  still ;  not 
empty,  I  hope. 

Landlord.  Not  empty,  I  hope!  Here's  to  you,  Mr. 
Wheeler. 

Wheel.  Mr.  Wheeler  !  —  Captain  Wheeler,  if  you  please. 

Landlord.  You  Captain  Wheeler !  —  Why,  I  thought  in 
former  times  it  was  always  the  oldest  scholar  at  Eton  that 
was  captain  at  the  Montems  ;  and  did  n't  Mr.  Talbot  come 
afore  you  ? 

Wheel.  Not  at  all;  we  came  on  the  same  day  —  some  say 
I  came  first  —  some  say  Talbot:  so  the  choice  of  which  of 
us  is  to  be  captain  is  to  be  put  to  the  vote  among  the  lads 
—  most  votes  carry  it;  and  I  have  most  votes,  I  fancy;  so 
T  shall  be  captain  to-morrow ;  and  a  pretty  deal  of  salt*  I 
reckon,  I  shall  pocket.  Why,  the  collection  at  the  last 
Montem,  they  say,  came  to  a  plump  thousand!  No  bad 
thing  for  a  young  fellow  to  set  out  with  for  Oxford  or  Cam- 
bridge —  Hey  ? 

Landlord.  And  no  bad  thing,  before  he  sets  out  for  Cam- 
bridge or  Oxford,  't  would  be  for  a  young  gentleman  to  pay 
his  debts. 

Wheel.  Debts !  0,  time  enough  for  that.  I  've  a  little 
account  with  you  for  horses,  I  know ;  but  that 's  between 
you  and  I,  you  know  —  mum. 

Jjandlord.  Mum  me  no  mums,  Mr.  Wheeler.  Between 
you  and  I,  my  best  hunter  has  been  ruinationed ;  and  I 
can't  afford  to  be  mum.  So  you  '11  take  no  offence  if  I 
speak ;  and  as  y  ;u  '11  set  off  to-morrow  as  soon  as  the  Mon- 
lem's  over,  you'll  be  pleased  to  settle  it  with  me  some  way 
or  other  to-day,  as  we  've  no  other  time. 

Wheel.  No  time  so  proper,  certainly.  Where 's  the  little 
account?  —  I  have  money  sent  me  for  my  Montem  dress, 

*  Salt,  the  cant  name  givei.  by  tba  Eton  lads  to  the  money  col- 
lected at  Mtntem. 


496  ETON     MONTEM. 

and  I  can  squeeze  that  much  out  of  it.  I  came  over  from 
Eton  on  purpose  to  settle  with  you.  But  as  to  the  hunter, 
you  must  call  upon  Talbot  —  do  you  understand?  —  to  pay 
for  him :  for,  though  Talbot  and  I  had  him  the  same  day, 
'twas  Talbot  did  for  him,  and  Talbot  must  pay.  I  spoke  to 
him  about  it,  and  charged  him  to  remember  you;  for  I 
never  forget  to  speak  a  good  word  for  my  friends. 

Landlord.  So  I  perceive. 

Wheel.  I'll  make  bold  just  to  give  you  my  opinion  of 
these  jellies,  while  you  are  getting  my  account,  Mr.  New- 
ington. 

[He  swallows  down  a  jelly  or  two.  —  Landlord  is  going. 

Enter  Talbot. 

Talb.  Holla,  landlord  !  where  are  you  making  off  so  fast? 
Here,  your  jellies  are  all  going  as  fast  as  yourself. 

Wheeler,  {aside.)  Talbot !  —  I  wish  I  was  a  hundred  milea 
off. 

Landlord.  You  are  heartily  welcome,  Mr.  Talbot.  A 
good-morning  to  you,  sir:  I'm  glad  to  see  you  —  very  glad 
\o  see  you,  Mr.  Talbot. 

Talb.  Then  shake  hands,  my  honest  landlord. 

[Talbot,  in  shaking  hands  with  him,  puts  a 
purse  into  the  Landlord's  hands. 

Landlord.  What's  here?     Guineas! 

Talb.  The  hunter,  you  know ;  since  Wheeler  won't  pay, 
I  must  —  that's  all.     Good^morning. 

Wheel,  (aside.)  What  a  fool ! 

[Landlord,  as  Talbot  is  going,  catches  hold 
of  his  coat. 

Landlord.  Hold,  Mr.  Talbot !  this  won't  do. 

Talb.  Won't  it?     Well,  then,  my  watch  must  go. 

Landlord.  Nay,  nay  !  but  you  are  in  such  a  hurry  to  pay, 
you  won't  hear  a  man.  Half  this  is  enough  for  your  share 
o'  the  mischief,  in  all  conscience.  Mr.  Wheeler,  there,  had 
the  horse  on  the  same  day. 


ETON     MONTEM.  497 

Wheel.  But  Bursal 's  my  witness — 

Talb.  0,  saym  more  about  witnesses:  a  man's  conscience 
is  always  his  best  witness  or  his  worst.  Landlord,  take  your 
money,  and  no  more  words. 

Wheel.  This  is  very  genteel  of  you,  Talbot.  I  always 
thought  you  would  do  the  genteel  thing,  as  I  knew  you  to 
be  so  generous  and  considerate. 

Talb.  Do  n't  waste  your  fine  speeches,  Wheeler,  I  advise 
you,  this  election-time.  Keep  them  for  Bursal,  or  Lord 
John,  or  some  of  those  who  like  them.  They  won't  go 
down  with  me.  Good-morning  to  you.  I  give  you  notice 
I  'm  going  back  to  Eton  as  fast  as  I  can  gallop ;  and  who 
knows  what  plain  speaking  may  do  with  the  Eton  lads?  I 
may  be  captain  yet,  Wheeler.  Have  a  care  !  —  Is  my  horse 
ready  there  ? 

Landlord.  Mr.  Talbot's  horse,  there  !  Mr.  Talbot's  horse, 
I  say! 

( Talbot  sings.) 

"  He  carries  weight  —  he  rides  a  race  — 
'T  is  for  a  thousand  pound !" 

[Exit  Talbot 

Wheel.  And,  dear  me!  I  shall  be  left  behind !     A  horse 

for  me,  pray  —  a  horse  for  Mr.  Wheeler!       [Exit  Wheeler. 

Landlord,  (calls  very  loud.)  Mr.  Talbot's  horse!     Hang 

the  hostler !  I  '11  saddle  him  myself.  [Exit  Landlord. 

SCENE  II. 

A  Dining-room  in  the  Inn  at  Salt  Hill  —  Mrs.  Talbot  and 
Louisa. 

Louisa,  (laughing.)  With  what  an  air  Mrs.  Landlady 
made  her  exit ! 

Mrs.  Talb.  When  I  was  young,  they  say  I  was  proud ; 
but  I  am  humble  enough  now :  these  petty  mortifications 
do  not  vex  me. 

Louisa.  It  is  well  my  brother  was  gone  before  Mrs. 
32 


498  ETON     MO  NT  EM. 

Landlady  made  her  entree ;  for  if  he  had  heard  her  rode 
speech,  he  would  have  given  her  at  least  the  retort  cour- 
teous. 

Mrs.  Talb.  Now  tell  me  honestly,  my  Louiaa  —  You  were 
a  few  days  ago  at  Bursal  House.  Since  you  have  left  it, 
and  have  felt  something  of  the  difference  that  is  made  in 
this  world  between  splendour  and  no  splendour,  have  you 
never  regretted  that  you  did  not  stay  there,  and  that  you 
did  not  bear  more  patiently  with  Miss  BursaPs  little  airs  ? 

Louisa.  Never  for  a  moment.  At  first  Miss  Bursal  paid 
me  a  vast  deal  of  attention  ;  but,  for  what  reason  I  know 
not,  she  suddenly  changed  her  manner,  grew  first  strangely 
cold,  then  condescendingly  familiar,  and  at  last  downright 
rude.     I  could  not  guess  the  cause  of  these  variations. 

Mrs.  Talb.  (aside.)  I  guess  the  cause  too  well. 

Louisa.  But,  as  I  perceived  the  lady  was  out  of  tune,  I 
was  in  haste  to  leave  her.  I  should  make  a  very  bad,  and, 
I  am  sure,  a  miserable,  toad-eater.  I  had  much  rather,  if 
I  were  obliged  to  choose,  earn  my  own  bread  than  live  as 
toad-eater  with  anybody. 

Mrs.  Talb.  Fine  talking,  dear  Louisa ! 

Louisa.  Don't  you  believe  me  to  be  in  earnest,  mother? 
To  be  sure,  you  cannot  know  what  I  would  do  unless  I  were 
put  to  the  trial. 

Mrs.  Talb.  Nor  you  either,  my  dear. 

[She  sighs,  and  w  silent. 

Louisa,  (takes  her  mother's  hand.)  What  is  the  matter, 
dear  mother?  You  used  to  say,  that  seeing  my  brother 
always  made  you  feel  ten  years  younger ;  yet  even  while  he 
was  here,  you  had,  in  spite  of  all  your  efforts  to  conceal 
them,  these  sudden  fits  of  sadness. 

Mrs.  Talb.  The  Montem  —  is  not  it  to-morrow?  Ay,  but 
my  boy  is  not  sure  of  being  captain. 

Louisa.  No ;  there  is  one  "Wheeler,  who,  as  he  says,  is 
most  likely  to  be  chosen  captain.  He  has  taken  prodigious 
pains  to  flatter  and  win  over  many  to  his  interest.     My 


ETON     MONTE  M.  499 

brother  does  not  so  much  care  about  it ;  he  is  not  avari 
cious. 

Mrs.  Talb  I  love  jour  generous  spirit  and  his  ;  but,  alas ! 
my  dear,  people  may  live  to  want  and  wish  for  money  with- 
out being  avaricious.  I  would  not  say  a  word  to  Talbot; 
full  of  spirits  as  he  was  this  morning,  I  would  not  say  a 
word  to  him,  till  after  the  Montem,  of  what  has  hap- 
pened. 

Louisa.  And  what  has  happened,  dear  mother  ?  Sit  down 
—  you  tremble. 

Mrs.  Talb.  (sits  down,  and  puts  a  letter  into  Louisa's  hand.) 
Read  that,  love.  A  messenger  brought  me  that  from  town 
a  few  hours  ago. 

Louisa,  {reads.)  "  By  an  express  from  Portsmouth  we 
hear  the  Bombay  Castle,  East  Indiaman,  is  lost,  with  all 
your  fortune  on  board."  All!  I  hope  there  is  something 
left  for  you  to  live  upon. 

Mrs.  Talb.  About  150Z.  a  year,  for  us  all. 

Louisa.  That  is  enough,  is  not  it,  for  you? 

Mrs.  Talb.  For  me,  love?  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  want 
but  little  in  this  world,  and  shall  be  soon  out  of  it. 

Louisa,  (kneels  down  beside  her.)  Do  not  speak  so,  dearest 
mother. 

Mrs.  Talb.  Enough  for  me,  love?  Yes,  enough,  and  too 
much  for  me.     I  am  not  thinking  of  myself. 

Louisa.  Then,  as  to  my  brother,  he  has  such  abilities,  and 
such  industry,  he  will  make  a  fortune  at  the  bar  for  him- 
self, most  certainly. 

Mrs.  Talb.  But  his  education  is  not  completed.  How 
shall  we  provide  him  with  money  at  Cambridge? 

Louisa.  This  Montem  —  the  last  time,  the  captain  had 
eight  hundred — the  time  before,  a  thousand  pounds.  0,  I 
hope — I  fear !  Now,  indeed,  I  know  that,  without  being 
avaricious,  we  may  want  and  wish  for  monev. 

[Landlady's  voice  heard  behind  the  scenes. 

Landlady.  "Waiter!  —  Miss   Bursal's    curricle   and  Mr. 


t)00  ETON     MONTEM. 

Bursal' s  vis-a-vis.    Ran !  see  that  the  Dolphin 's  empty.     I 
say,  run  —  run. 

Mrs.  Talb.  I  will  rest  for  a  few  minutes  upon  the  sofa  in 
this  bedchamber,  before  we  set  off. 

Lcuisa.  [goes  to  open  the  door.)  They  have  bolted  or 
locked  it.     How  unlucky ! 

[SJie  turns  the  key,  and  tries  to  unlock  the  door. 

Enter  Waiter. 

Waiter.  Ladies,  I  am  sorry  —  Miss  Bursal  and  Mr.  Bur- 
sal are  come — just  coming  up-stairs. 

Mrs.  Talb.  Then  will  you  be  so  good,  sir,  as  to  unlock 
this  door  ?  [  Waiter  tries  to  unlock  the  door. 

Waiter.  It  must  be  bolted  on  the  inside.  Chambermaid ! 
Sally !     Are  you  within  there  !     Unbolt  this  door. 

[Mr.  Bursal' s  voice  behind  the  scenes,  —  "  Let  me 
have  a  basin  of  good  soup  directly." 

Waiter.  I  '11  go  round  and  have  the  door  unbolted  imme- 
diately, ladies.  [Exit  Waiter. 

Enter  Miss  Bursal,  in  a  riding-dress,  and  with  a  long  whip. 

Miss  Burs.  Those  creatures,  the  ponies,  have  a'niost  pulled 
my  'and  off.  Who  'ave  we  'ere  ?  Ha !  "Mrs.  Talbot !  Lou- 
isa !  'ow  are  ye ?  I  'm  so  vastly  glad  to  see  you  !  —  but  I 'm 
so  shocked  to  'ear  of  the  loss  of  the  Bombay  Castle !  Mrs. 
Talbot,  you  look  but  p-oorly ;  but  this  Montem  will  put 
everybody  in  spirits.  I  'ear  everybody 's  to  be  ere,  and  my 
brother  tells  me  'twill  be  the  finest  ever  seen  at  jBT'Eton. 
Louisa,  my  dear,  I'm  sorry  I've  not  a  seat  for  you  in  ray 
curricle  for  to-morrow  ;  but  I  've  promised  Lady  Betty}  — 
so,  you  know,  'tis  impossible  for  me. 

Louisa.  Certainly  ;  and  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to 
leave  my  mother  at  present. 

Chambermaid,  {opens  the  bedchamber  door.)  The  room 's 
ready  now,  ladies. 

Mrs.  Talb.  Miss  Bursal,  we  intrude  upon  you  no  longer. 


ETON     MONTEM.  501 

Mis.  Burs.  Nay,  why  do  ye  decamp,  Mrs.  Talbot?     I  }ad 

a  thousand  things  to  say  to  you,  Louisa ;  but  am  so  tired, 

and  so  annoyed —  [Seats  herself. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Talbot,  Louisa,  and  Chambermaid. 

Enter  Mr.  Bursal,  with  a  basin  of  soup  in  his  hand. 

Mr.  Burs.  Well,  thank  my  stars,  the  Airy  Castle  is  safe 
in  the  Downs. 

Miss  Burs.  Mr.  Bursal,  can  you  inform  me  why  Joe  my 
groom  does  not  make  his  appearance? 

Mr.  Burs,  [eating  and  speaking.)  Yes,  that  I  can,  child  — 
because  he  is  with  his  'orses,  where  he  ought  to  be.  'T  is 
fit  they  should  be  looked  after  well,  for  they  cost  me  a  pretty 
penny  —  more  than  their  heads  are  worth,  and  yours  into 
the  bargain  ;  but  I  was  resolved,  as  we  were  to  come  to  this 
Montem,  to  come  in  style. 

Miss  Burs.  In  style,  to  be  sure :  for  all  the  world 's  to  be 
here  —  the  king,  and  Prince  o'  Whales,  and  Duke  o'  York 
and  all  the  first  people  ;  and  we  shall  cut  such  a  dash !  — 
Dash !  dash !  will  be  the  word  to-morrow !  (playing  with 
her  whip.) 

Mr.  Burs,  (aside.)  Dash!  dash!  —  Ay,  just  like  her  bro- 
ther. He'll  pay  away  finely,  I  warrant,  by  the  time  he's 
her  age.  Well,  well,  he  can  afford  it ;  and  I  do  love  to  see 
my  children  make  a  figure  for  their  money.  As  Jack  Bur- 
sal says,  What's  money  for  if  it  e'nt  to  make  a  figure. — 
(Aloud.)  There's  your  brother  Jack,  now  —  the  extrava- 
gant dog!  —  he'll  have  such  a  dress  as  never  was  seen,  I 
suppose,  at  this  here  Montem.  Why,  now,  Jack  Bursal 
spends  mon,  money  at  Eton,  and  has  more  to  spend,  than 
my  Lord  John,  though  my  Lord  John's  the  son  of  a  mar- 
chioness. 

Miss  Burs.  0,  that  makes  no  difference  nowadays.  I 
wonder  whether  her  ladyship  is  to  be  at  this  Montem.  The 
only  good  I  ^ever  got  out  of  those  stupid  Talbots  was  an 
introduction  to  their  friend,  Lady  Piercefield.     What  she 


502  ETON     MONTEM. 

could  find  to  like  in  the  Talbots,  Heaven  knows.  I  've  a 
notion  she  '11  drop  them,  when  she  hears  of  the  loss  of  the 
Bombay  Castle. 

Enter  a  Waiter  with  a  note. 
Waiter.  A  note  from  my  Lady  Piercefield,  sir. 
Miss  B.  Charming  woman  1     Is  she  here,  pray,  sir? 
Waiter.  Just  come  —  yes,  ma'am.  [Exit  Waiter. 

Miss  B.  Well,  Mr.  Bursal,  what  is  it? 
Mr.  B.  (reads.)  "Business  of  importance   to  communi- 
cate— "     Hum  — What  can  it  be  ?  [Going. 
Miss  B.  (aside.)  Perhaps  some  match  to  propose  for  me  ! 

—  (Aloud.)  Mr.  Bursal,  pray,  before  you  go  to  her  ladyship, 
do  send  my  woman  to  me  to  make  me  presentable. 

[Exit  Miss  Bursal  at  one  door. 
Mr.  B.  (at  the  opposite  door.)  "  Business  of  importance  V* 

—  Hum!  I'm  glad  I'm  prepared  with  a  good  basin  of 
soup  ■  there  's  no  doing  business  well  upon  an  empty  sto- 
mach. Perhaps  the  business  is  to  lend  cash  ;  and  I  've  no 
great  stomach  for  that :  but  it  will  be  an  honour,  to  be  sure. 

[Exit. 

SCENE   I'll. 

Landlady's  Parlour. 

Landlady  —  Mr.  Finsbury,  a  man-milliner,  with  bandboxes 
—  a  fancy-cap,  or  helmet  with  feathers,  in  the  Landlady* s 
hand  —  a  satin  bag,  covered  with  gold  netting,  in  the  man- 
milliner's  hand — a  mantle  hanging  over  his  arm — a  rough- 
looking  Farmer  is  sitting  with  his  back  towards  them,  eating 
bread  and  cheese,  and  reading  a  newspaper. 

Landlady.  Well,  this,  to  be  sure,  will  be  the  best-dressed 
Montem  that  ever  was  seen  at  Eton ;  and  you  Lon'on  gen- 
tlemen have  the  most  fashionablest  notions ;  and  this  ia  the 
elegantest  fancy-cap — 

Fins.  Why,  as  you  observe,  ma'am,  that  is  the  most  ele- 
gant fancy-cap  of  them  all.     That  is  Mr.  Hector  Hogmor- 


ETON     MO  NT  EM.  503 

ton's  fancy-cap,  ma'am  ;  and  here,  ma'am,  is  Mr.  Saul's 
rich  satin  bag,  covered  with  gold  net.  He  is  college  salt- 
bearer,  I  understand,  and  has  a  prodigious  superb  white 
and  gold  dress.  But  in  my  humble  opinion,  ma'am,  the 
marshal's  white,  and  purple,  and  orange  fancy-dress,  trim- 
med with  silver,  will  bear  the  bell ;  though,  indeed,  I  should- 
n't say  that — for  the  colonel's,  and  lieutenant's,  and  ensign's, 
are  beautiful  in  the  extreme.  And,  to  be  sure,  nothing  can 
be  better  imagined  than  Mr.  Marlborough's  lilac  and  silver, 
with  a  Roman  cap.  And  it  must  be  allowed  that  nothing 
in  nature  can  have  a  better  effect  than  Mr.  Drake's  flesh- 
colour  and  blue,  with  this  Spanish  hat,  ma'am,  you  see. 

[The  Farmer  looks  over  his  shoulder  from  time  to 
time,  during  this  speech,  with  contempt. 

Farmer,  (reads  the  newspaper.)  French  fleet  at  sea!  — 
Hum! 

Landlady.  0,  gemini !  Mr.  Drake's  Spanish  hat  is  the 
sweetest,  tasty  thing!  —  Mr.  Finsbury,  I  protest — 

Fins.  Why,  ma'am,  I  knew  a  lady  of  your  taste  could  'nt 
but  approve  of  it.  My  own  invention,  entirely,  ma'am. 
But  it's  nothing  to  the  captain's  cap,  ma'am.  Indeed, 
ma'am,  Mr.  "Wheeler,  the  captain  that  is  to  be,  has  the  pret- 
tiest taste  in  dress.  To  be  sure,  his  sandals  were  my  sug- 
gestion ;  but  the  mantle  he  has  the  entire  credit  of,  to  do 
him  justice  ;  and  when  you  see  it,  ma'am,  you  will  be  really 
surprised  ;  for,  for  contrast  and  elegance,  and  richness,  and 
lightness,  and  propriety,  ani  effect,  and  costume,  you've 
never  yet  seen  anything  at  all  to  be  compared  to  Captain 
Wheeler's  mantle,  ma'am. 

Farm,  (to  the  Landlady.)  Why  now,  pray,  Mrs.  Landlady, 
how  long  may  it  have  been  the  fashion  for  milliners  to  go 
about  in  men's  clothes  ? 

Landlady,  (aside  to  Farmer.)  Lord,  Mr.  Hearty,  hush! 
This  is  Mr.  Finsbury,  the  great  man-milliner. 

Farm.  The  great  man-milliner!  This  \%  a  sight  I  never 
thought  to  see  in  old  England. 


504  ETON     MONTEM. 

Fins,  (packing  tip  bandboxes.)  "Well,  ma'am,  I'm  glad  f 
have  your  approbation  It  has  ever  been  my  study  to  please 
the  ladies. 

Farm,  (throws  a  fancy  mantle  over  his  frieze  coat.)  And 
is  this  the  way  to  please  the  ladies,  Mrs.  Landlady,  nowa 
days? 

Fins,  (taking  off  the  mantle.)  Sir,  with  your  leave  —  I 
ask  pardon  —  but  the  least  thing  detriments  these  tender 
colours  ;  and  as  you  have  just  been  eating  cheese  with  your 
hands — 

Farm.  'T  is  my  way  to  eat  cheese  with  my  mouth,  man. 

Fins.  Man! 

Farm.  I  ask  pardon  —  man-milliner,  I  mean. 

Enter  Landlord. 

Landlord.  Why,  wife ! 

Landlady.  Wife! 

Landlord.  I  ask  pardon  —  Mrs.  Newington,  I  mean.  Do 
you  know  who  them  ladies  are  that  you  have  been  and 
turned  out  of  the  Dolphin  ? 

Landlady,  (alarmed.)  Not  I,  indeed.  Who  are  they, 
pray  ?  Why,  if  they  are  quality,  it 's  no  fault  of  mine :  it 
is  their  own  fault,  for  coming  like  scrubs,  without  four 
horses.  Why,  if  quality  will  travel  the  road  this  way, 
incognito,  how  can  they  expect  to  be  known  and  treated  as 
quality  !  'T  is  no  fault  of  mine  ;  why  did  n't  you  find  out 
sooner  who  they  were,  Mr.  Newington  ?  What  else,  in  the 
'versal  world,  have  you  to  do,  but  to  go  basking  about  in 
the  yards  and  places  with  your  tankard  in  your  hand,  from 
morning  to  night  ?  What  have  you  else  to  ruminate,  all 
day  long,  but  to  find  out  who's  who,  I  say? 

Farm.  Clapper !  clapper !  clapper  !  like  my  mill  in  a  high 
wind,  Landlord.  Clapper !  clapper !  clapper !  enough  tg 
stun  a  body. 

Landlord.  That  is  not  used  to  it ;  but  use  is  all,  they  say. 

Landlady.  Will  you  answer  me,  Mr.  Newington  ?     Wb<*. 


ETON     MORTEM.  505 

are  tie  grandees  that  were  in  the  Dolphin?  and  what's 
become  on  them  ? 

Landlord.  Grandees  was  your  own  word,  wife.  They  be 
not  to  call  grandees ;  but  I  reckon  you  'd  be  sorry  not  to 
treat  'em  civil,  when  I  tell  you  their  name  is  Talbot  —  mo- 
ther and  sister  to  our  young  Talbot,  of  Eton  ;  he  that  paid 
me  so  handsome  for  the  hunter  this  very  morning. 

Landlady.  Mercy !  is  that  all  ?  What  a  combustion  for 
nothing  in  life  ! 

Fins.  For  nothing  in  life,  as  you  say,  ma'am  ;  that  nothing 
in  high  life,  I'm  sure,  ma'am;  nay,  I  dare  a'most  denture 
to  swear:  for,  would  you  believe  it,  Mr.  Talbot  is  olb  of  the 
few  young  gentlemen  of  Eton  that  has  not  bespoke  ftvm  me 
a  fancy-dress  for  this  grand  Montem. 

Landlady.  There,  Mr.  Newington !  there's  your  Talbot 
for  you  !  and  there 's  your  grandees  !  0,  trust  me,  I  know 
your  scrubs  at  first  sight. 

Landlord.  Scrubs,  I  can't,  nor  do  n't,  nor  won't  call  them, 
that  pay  their  debts  honest.  Scrubs,  I  do  n't,  nor  won't, 
nor  can't  call  them,  that  behave  as  handsome  as  young  Mr. 
Talbot  did  here  to  me  this  morning,  about  the  hunter.  A 
scrub  he  is  not,  wife.  Fancy-dress  or  no  fancy-dress,  Mr. 
Finsbury,  this  young  gentleman  is  no  scrub. 

Fins.  Dear  me !  ;T  was  not  I  said  scrub.  Did  I  say 
scrub  ? 

Farm.  No  matter  if  you  did. 

Fins.  No  matter,  certainly;  and  yet  it  is  a  matter,  —  for 
I  'm  confident  I  would  n't,  for  the  world,  leave  it  in  any 
one's  power  to  say  that  I  said  —  that  I  called  any  young 
gentleman  of  Eton  a  icrub.  Why,  you  know,  sir,  it  might 
breed  a  riot ! 

Farm.  And  a  pretty  figure  you'd  make  in  a  riot! 

Landlady.  Pray  let  me  hear  nothing  about  riots  in  my 
house. 

Farm.  Nor  about  scrubs. 

Fins.  But  I  beg  leave  to  explain,  gentlemen.     All  I  ven- 


506  ETON     MONTEM. 

tured  to  remark  or  suggest  was,  that  as  there  was  some  talk 
of  Mr.  Talbot's  being  captain  to-morrow,  I  didn't  conceive 
how  he  could  well  appear  without  any  dress.  That  was 
all,  upon  my  word  and  honour.  A  good-morning  to  you, 
gentlemen  ;  it  is  time  for  me  to  be  off.  Mrs.  Newington, 
you  were  so  obliging  to  promise  to  accommodate  me  with  a 
return-chaise  as  far  as  Eton.  [Finsbury  bows,  and  exit 

Farm.  A  good-day  to  you  and  your  bandboxes.  There's 
a  fellow  for  you,  now  !  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  A  man-milliner,  for- 
sooth ! 

Landlord.  Mrs.  Talbot's  coming  —  stand  back. 

Landlady.  Lord !  why  does  Bob  show  them  through  this 
way? 

Enter  Mrs  Talbot,  leaning  on  Louisa,  —  Waiter  showing  the 
way. 

Landlady.  You  are  going  on,  I  suppose,  ma'am. 

Waiter,  [aside  to  Landlord.)  Not  if  she  could  help  it;  but 
there's  no  beds  since  Mr.  Bursal  and  Miss  Bursal 's  come. 

Landlord.  I  say  nothing,  for  'tis  in  vain  to  say  more  ;  but 
is  n't  it  a  pity  she  can't  stay  for  the  Montem,  poor  old  lady ! 
Her  son  —  as  good  and  fine  a  lad  as  ever  you  saw  —  they 
say,  has  a  chance,  too,  of  being  captain.  She  may  never 
five  to-  see  another  such  a  sight. 

[As  Mrs.  Talbot  walks  slowly  on,  the  Farmer  puts 
himself  across  her  way,  so  as  to  stop  her 
short. 

Farm.  No  offence,  madam,  I  hope  ;  but  I  've  a  good  snug 
iarm -house,  not  far  off  hand,  and  if  so  be  you'd  be  so  good 
to  take  a  night's  lodging,  you  and  the  young  lady  with  you, 
you'd  have  a  hearty  welcome  —  that's  all  lean  say;  and 
you  'd  make  my  wife  very  happy,  for  she  's  a  good  woman, 
to  say  nothing  of  myself. 

Landlord.  If  I  may  be  so  bold  to  put  in  my  word,  madam, 
you  'd  have  as  good  beds,  and  be  as  well  lodged  with  Farmer 
Hearty,  as  in  e'er  a  house  at  Salt  Hill. 


ETON     MCNTEM.  507 

Mrs.  Talb,  I  am  very  much  obliged — 

Farm.  0,  say  nothing  o'  that,  madam  ;  I  am  sure  I  shall 
be  as  much  obliged,  if  you  do  come.  Do,  miss,  speak  for 
me 

Louisa.  Pray,  dear  mother — 

Farm.  She  will.  (Calls  behind  the  scenes.)  Here,  waiter ! 
hostler!  driver!  what's  your  name  —  drive  the  chaise  up 
here  to  the  door,  smart,  close.  Lean  on  my  arm,  madam, 
and  we  '11  have  you  in  and  at  home  in  a  whiff. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Talbot,  Louisa,  Farmer,  Landlord, 
and  Waiter. 

Landlady,  (sola.)  What  a  noise  and  a  rout  this  farmer 
man  makes!  and  my  husband,  with  his  great  broad  face, 
bowing,  as  great  a  nincompoop  as  t'  other.  The  folks  are 
all  bewitched  with  the  old  woman,  I  verily  believe.  (Aloud.) 
A  good-morning  to  you,  ladies.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II.  — SCENE  I. 

Afield  near  Eton  College.  —  several  boys  crossing  backwards 
and  forwards  in  the  background.  In  front,  Talbot, 
Wheeler,  Lord  John,  and  Bursal. 

Talb.  Fair  play,  Wheeler !  Have  at  'em,  my  boy  !  There 
they  stand,  fair  game  !  There 's  Bursal  there,  with  his  dead 
forty-five  votes  at  command ;  and  Lord  John  -with  his — how 
many  live  friends  ? 

Lord  J.  (coolly.)  Sir,  I  have  fifty-six  friends,  I  believe. 

Talb.  Fifty-six  friends,  his  lordship  believes  !  —  Wheeler 
inclusive,  no  doubt. 

Lord  J.  That's  as  hereafter  may  be. 

Wheel.  Hereafter !  0  fy,  my  lud  !  You  know  your  own 
Wheeler  has,  from  the  first  minute  he  ever  saw  you,  been 
rour  fast  friend. 

Talb.  Your  fast  friend  from  the  first  minute  he  ever  saw 
«m,  my  lord !     That 's  well  hit,  Wheeler ;  stick  to  that ; 


50S  ETON     MONTEM. 

stick  fast.     Fifty-six  friends,  Wheeler  inclusive,  bey,  my 
lord,  hey,  my  lud! 

Lord  J.  Talbot  exclusive,  I  find,  contrary  to  my  expecta- 
tions. 

Talb.  Ay,  contrary  to  your  expectations,  you  find  that 
Talbot  is  not  a  dog  that  will  lick  the  dust ;  but  then  there's 
enough  of  the  true  spaniel  breed  to  be  had  for  whi&tling  for 
—  hey,  Wheeler? 

Bursal,  [aside  to  Wheeler.)  A  d — d  bad  electioneerer ! 
So  much  the  better  for  you,  Wheeler.  Why,  unless  he 
bought  a  vote,  he  'd  never  win  one,  if  he  talked  from  this 
to  the  day  of  j  udgment. 

Wheel,  [aside  to  Bursal.)  And  as  he  has  no  money  to  buy 
votes  —  he  !  he  !  he  !  —  we  are  safe  enough. 

Talb.  That's  well  done,  Wheeler;  fight  the  by-battle 
there  with  Bursal;  now  you  are  sure  of  the  main  with  Lord 
John. 

Lord  J.  Sure  !  I  never  made  Mr.  Wheeler  any  promise 
yet. 

Wheel.  0, 1  ask  no  promise  from  his  lordship ;  we  are  upor* 
honour ;  I  trust  entirely  to  his  lordship's  good-nature  and. 
generosity,  and  to  his  regard  for  his  own  family,  I  having 
the  honour,  though  distantly,  to  be  related. 

Lord  J.  Belated !  —  How,  Wheeler  ? 

WJieel.  Connected,  I  mean,  which  is  next  door,  as  I  may 
say,  to  being  related  —  related  slipped  out  by  mistake  —  I 
beg  pardon,  my  Lord  John. 

Lord  J.  Related  !  —  A  strange  mistake,  Wheeler. 

Talb.  Overshot  yourself,  Wheeler  —  overshot  yourself,  by 
all  that 's  awkward.  And  yet,  till  now  I  always  took  you 
for  "  a  dead  shot  at  a  yellow  hammer."  * 

Wheel,  [taking  Bursal  by  the  arm.)  Bursal,  a  word  with 

*  Young  noblemen  at  Oxford  wear  yellow  tufts  at  the  tops  of  their 
cajs.  Hence  their  flatterers  are  said  to  be  dead  shots  at  yellow 
hammers. 


ETON     MOKTEM.  509 

you,  —  (Aside  to  Bursal.)  What  a  lump  of  family  pride  that 
Lord  John  is ! 

Talb.  Keep  out  of  my  hearing,  Wheeler,  lest  I  should 
spoil  sport.  But  never  fear,  you  '11  please  Bursal  sooner 
than  I  shall  —  I  can't,  for  the  soul  of  me,  bring  myself  to 
Bay  that  Bursal's  not  purse-proud,  and  you  can  —  Give  you 

joy  I 

Burs.  A  choice  electioneerer !  —  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Wheel,  (faintly.)  He!  he!  he!  —  a  choice  electioneerer, 
as  you  say. 

[Exeunt  Wheeler  and  Bursal.  —  Manent  Lord  J. 
and  Talbot. 

Lord  J.  There  was  a  time,  Talbot — 

Talb.  There  was  a  time,  my  lord  —  to  save  trouble  and  a 
long  explanation  —  there  was  a  time  when  you  liked  Talbots 
better  than  spaniels:  you  understand  me. 

Lord  J.  I  have  found  it  very  difficult  to  understand  you 
of  late,  Mr.  Talbot. 

Talb.  Yes,  because  you  have  used  other  people's  under 
standings  instead  of  your  own.  Be  yourself,  my  lord.  See 
with  your  own  eyes,  and  hear  with  your  own  ears,  and  then 
you  '11  find  me  still  what  I've  been  these  seven  years  —  not 
your  under-strapper,  your  hanger-on,  your  flatterer,  but  — 
your  friend!  If  you  choose  to  have  me  for  a  friend,  here's 
my  hand  —  I  am  your  friend  —  and  you  '11  not  find  a  better. 

Lord  J.  (giving  his  hand.)  You  are  a  strange  fellow,  Tal- 
bot; I  thought  I  never  could  have  forgiven  you  for  what 
you  said  last  night. 

Talb.  What  ?  —  for  I  do  n't  keep  a  register  of  my  sayings 
—  0,  it  was  something  about  gaming — Wheeler  was  flat- 
tering your  taste  for  it,  and  he  put  me  into  a  passion  —  I 
forget  what  I  said  —  But  whatever  it  was,  I  'm  sure  it  was 
well  meant,  ai.I  I  believe  it  was  well  said. 

Lord  J.  But  you  laugh  at  me  sometimes  to  my  face. 

Talb.  Would  you  rather  I  should  laugh  at  you  behind 
your  back  ? 


510  ETON     MONTEM. 

Lord  J,  But  of  all  things  in  the  world,  I  hate  to  bf 
laughed  at.  Listen  to  me,  and  do  n't  fumble  in  your  pock- 
ets while  I  am  talking  to  you. 

Talb.  I'm  fumbling  for  —  oh,  here  it  is.  Now,  Lor6 
John,  I  once  did  laugh  at  you  behind  your  back,  and,  what's 
droll  enough,  it  was  at  your  back  I  laughed.  Here 's  a  cari- 
catura  I  drew  of  you  —  I  really  am  sorry  I  did  it ;  but 't  is 
best  to  show  it  to  you  myself. 

Lord  J.  (aside.)  It  is  all  I  can  do  to  forgive  this. —  (After 
a  pause,  he  tears  the  papers.)  I  have  heard  of  this  caricatura 
before  ;  but  I  did  not  expect  that  you  would  come  and  show 
it  to  me  yourself,  Talbot,  so  handsomely,  especially  at  such 
a  time  as  this.  Wheeler  might  well  say  you  are  a  bad  elec- 
tioneerer. 

Talb.  0,  hang  it,  I  forgot  my  election,  and  your  fifty-six 
friends. 

Enter  Rory  O'Ryan. 

Rory.  (claps  Talbot  on  the  back.)  Fifty-six  friends  have 
you,  Talbot?  —  Say  seven  —  fifty-seven,  I  mean,  —  for  I'll 
lay  ye  a  wager  you've  forgot  me,  and  that's  a  shame  for 
you  too,  for  out  of  the  whole  posse-comitatus  entirely,  now, 
you  have  not  a  stancher  friend  than  poor  little  Rory  O'Ryan. 
And  a  good  right  he  has  to  befriend  you,  for  you  stood  by 
him  when  many,  that  ought  to  have  known  better,  were 
hunting  him  down  for  a  wild  Irishman.  Now  that  same 
wild  Irishman  has  as  much  gratitude  in  him  as  any  tame 
Englishman  of  them  all.  But  do  n't  let 's  be  talking  sinti- 
mint ;  for,  for  my  share,  I  'd  not  give  a  bog-berry  a  bushel 
for  sintimint  when  I  could  get  anything  better. 

Lord  J.  And  pray,  sir,  what  may  a  bog-berry  be  ? 

Rory.  Phoo  !  do  n't  be  playing  the  innocent,  now.  Where 
have  you  lived  all  your  life,  (I  ask  pardon,  my  lard,)  not  to 
know  a  bog-berry  when  you  see  it,  or  hear  of  it.  —  (Turns 
to  Talbot.)  But  what  are  ye  standing  idling  here  for?  Sure 
there 's  Wheeler,  and  Bursal  along  with  him,  canvassing 


ETON     MO  NT  EM.  511 

out  yonder  at  a  terrible  fine  rate.  And  have  n't  I  been  huz- 
zaing for  you  there  till  I'm  hoarse?  So  I  am,  and  just 
stepped  away  to  suck  an  orange  for  my  voice.  (Sucks  an 
orange.)  I  am  a  thorough-going  friend,  at  any  rate. 

Talb.  Now,  Rory,  you  are  the  best  fellow  in  the  world, 
and  a  thorough-going  friend  ;  but  have  a  care,  or  you  '11  get 
yourself  and  me  into  some  scrape,  before  you  have  done 
with  this  violent  thorough-going  work. 

Rory.  Never  fear !  never  fear,  man  !  —  a  warm  frind  and 
a  bitter  enemy,  that's  my  maxim. 

Talb.  Yes,  but  too  warm  a  friend  is  as  bad  as  a  bitter 
enemy. 

Rory.  0,  never  fear  me !  I  'm  as  cool  as  a  cucumber  all 
the  time ;  and  while  they  tink  I  'm  Unking  of  nothing  in 
life  but  making  a  noise,  I  make  my  own  little  snug  remarks 
in  prose  and  verse,  as  —  now  my  voice  is  after  coming  back 
to  me,  you  shall  hear,  if  you  plase. 

Talb.  I  do  please. 

Rory.  I  call  it  Rory's  song.  Now,  mind  I  have  a  verse 
for  everybody,  —  o'  the  leading  lads,  I  mean ;  and  I  shall 
put  'em  in  or  lave  'em  out,  according  to  their  inclinations 
and  deserts,  wise-a-wee  to  you,  my  little  frind.  So,  you  com- 
prehend, it  will  be  Rory's  song  with  variations. 

Talbot  and  Lord  John.  Let 's  have  it :  let  us  have  it  with- 
out further  preface. 

Rory  sings. 
"I'm  true  game  to  the  last,  and  no  Wheeler  for  me." 

Rory.  There  's  a  stroke,  in  the  first  place,  for  Wheeler 
you  take  it. 

Talb.  0  yes,  yes,  we  take  it ;  go  on. 

Rory  sings. 

"I'm  true  game  t(.  the  last,  and  no  Wheeler  for  me. 
Of  all  birds,  beasts,  or  fishes  that  swim  in  the  sea, 
"Webbed  or  finned,  black  or  white,  man  or  child,  Wbfg  or  Tory, 
None  but  Talbot,  0  Talbot's  the  dog  for  Rory." 


512  ETON    MONTE  M. 

Talb.  Talbot  the  dog  is  much  obliged  to  you. 

Lord  J.  But  if  I  have  any  ear,  one  of  your  lines  is  a  foot 
too  long,  Mr.  O'Ryan. 

Rory.  Phoo,  put  the  best  foot  foremost  for  bfrind.  Slur 
it  in  the  singing,  and  don't  be  quarrelling,  anyhow,  for 
a  foot  more  or  less  —  the  more  feet,  the  better  it  will  stand, 
you  know.  Only  let  me  go  on,  and  you  '11  come  to  some- 
thing that  will  plase  you. 

Rory  sings. 
"  Then  there's  he  with  the  purse  that's  as  long  as  my  arm." 

Rory.  That 's  Bursal,  mind  now,  in  this  verse  I  mean  to 
allude  to. 

Lord  J.  If  the  allusion  's  good,  we  shall  probably  find  out 
your  meaning. 

Talb.  On  with  you,  Rory,  and  do  n't  read  us  notes  on  a 
song. 

Lord  J.  Go  on,  and  let  us  hear  what  you  say  of  Bursal. 

Rory  sings. 

"Then  there's  he  with  the  purse  that's  as  long  as  my  arm; 
His  father's  a  tanner,  but  then  where 's  the  harm? 
Heir  to  houses,  and  hunters,  and  horseponds  in  fee, 
Won't  his  skins  sure  soon  buy  him  a  pedigree  ?" 

Lord  J.  Encore !  encore !  Why,  Rory,  I  did  not  think 
you  could  make  so  good  a  song. 

Rory.  Sure,  't  was  none  of  I  made  it  —  't  was  Talbot  here. 

Talb.  I! 

Rory.  (asid,e.)  Not  a  word:  I'll  make  you  a  present  of 
it;  sure,  then,  it's  your  own. 

Talb.  I  never  wrote  a  word  of  it. 

Rory.  (to  Lord  J.)  Phoo!  phoo!  he 's  only  denying  it  out 
of  false  modesty. 

Lord  J.  Well,  no  matter  who  wrote  it  —  sing  it  again. 

Rory.  Be  easy.  So  I  will,  and  as  many  more  verses  as 
you  will  at  the  back  of  it.  ( Winking  at  Talbot,  a,side.)  You 


ETON     MONTEM.  513 

shall  have  the  credit  of  all.  —  (Aloud.)  Put  me  in  when  I  'm 
out,  Talbot:  and  you  (to  Lord  John)  join — join. 

Rory  sings,  and  Lord  John  sings  with  him. 

"Then  there's  he  with  the  purse  that's  as  long  as  my  arm, 
His  father's  a  tanner,  but  then  where 's  the  harm? 
Heir  to  houses,  and  hunters,  and  horseponds  in  fee, 
Won't  his  skins  sure  soon  buy  him  a  pedigree  ? 
There 's  my  lord  with  the  back  that  never  was  bent — " 

[Lord  John  stops  singing  —  Talbot  makes  signs 
to  Rory  to  stop,  bat  Rory  does  not  see  himt 
and  sings  on. 
"  There  'b  my  lord  with  the  back  that  never  was  bent. 
Let  him  live  with  his  ancestors,  I  am  content." 

[Rory  pushes  Lord  J.  and  Talbot  with  his  elbows. 
Rory.  Join,  join,  both  of  ye  —  why  don't  you  join?  — 
{Sings.) 

"  Who  '11  buy  my  Lord  John  ?  the  arch  fishwoman  cried, — 
A  nice  oyster  shut  up  in  a  choice  shell  of  pride." 

Rory.  But  join,  or  ye  spoil  all. 

Talb.  You  have  spoiled  all,  indeed. 

Lord  J.  (making  a  formal  low  bow.)  Mr.  Talbot,  Xiord 
John  thanks  you. 

Rory.  Lord  John !  blood  and  thunder !  I  forgot  you 
were  by  —  quite  and  clean. 

Lord  J.  (Puts  him  aside,  and  continues  speaking  to  Talbot.) 
Lord  John  thanks  you,  Mr.  Talbot:  this  is  the  second  part 
of  the  caricatura.  Lord  John  thanks  you  for  these  proofs 
of  friendship  —  Lord  John  has  reason  to  thank  you,  Mr. 
Talbot. 

Rory.  No  reason  in  life,  r.Dw.  Do  n't  be  thinking  so  much 
for  nothing  in  life  ;  or,  if  you  must  be  thinking  o'  somebody, 
."t's  me  you  ought  to  thank. 

Lord  J.  I  ought  and  do,  sir,  for  unmasking  one  who — 

Talb.  (warmly.)  Unmasking!  my  lord — 

Rory.  (holding  them  asunder.)  Pboo!  phoo!  phoo!  be 
33 


514  ETON     MONTEM. 

easy,  can't  ye  —  there's  no  unmasking  at  all  in  the  case. 
My  Lord  John,  Talbot's  writing  the  song  was  all  a  mistake. 

Lord  J.  As  much  a  mistake  as  your  singing  it,  sir,  I  pre. 
sume — 

Rory.  Just  as  much.  'Twas  all  a  mistake:  so,  now, 
do  n't  you  go  and  make  a  mistake  into  a  misunderstanding. 
It  was  I  made  every  word  of  the  song  out  o'  the  face*  — 
that  about  the  back  that  never  was  bent,  and  the  ancestors, 
and  the  oyster,  and  all.  He  did  not  write  a  word  of  it; 
upon  my  conscience,  I  wrote  it  all  —  though  I  '11  engage  you 
did  n't  think  I  could  write  such  a  good  thing.  [Lord  John 
turns  away.)  I'm  telling  you  the  truth,  and  not  a  word  of 
lie,  yet  you  won't  believe  me. 

Lord  J.  You  will  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  cannot  believe  two 
contradictory  assertions  within  two  minutes.  Mr.  Talbot, 
I  thank  you.  [going.) 

[Rory  tries  to  stop  Lord  John  from  going,  but 
cannot  —  Exit  Lord  John. 

Rory.  "Well,  if  he  will  go,  let  him  go,  then,  and  much 
good  may  it  do  him.     Nay,  but  do  n't  you  go  too. 

Talb.  0,  Rory,  what  have  you  done !  ( Talbot  runs  after 
Lord  J.)  Hear  me,  my  lord.  [Exit  Talbot. 

Rory.  Hear  him  !  hear  him  !  hear  him  !  "Well,  I  'm  point 
blank  mad  with  myself  for  making  this  blunder ;  but  how 
could  I  help  it?  As  sure  as  ever  I  am  meaning  to  do  the 
best  thing  on  earth,  it  runs  out  the  worst. 

Enter  a  party  of  lads  huzzaing. 

Rory.  (joins.)  Huzza !  huzza  !  — "Who,  pray,  are  ye  huz- 
zaing for  ? 

1st  Boy.  "Wheeler !     "Wheeler  for  ever !  huzza ! 

Rory.  Talbot !  Talbot  for  ever !  huzza  !  —  Captain  Tal- 
bot for  ever  !  huzza  ! 

2d  Boy.  Captain  he  '11  never  be — at  least  not  to-morrow : 
for  Lord  John  has  just  declared  for  Wheeler. 


*  From  beginning  to  end. 


ETON     MONTEM.  515 

isi  Boy.  And  that  turns  the  scale 

Rory.  0,  the  scale  may  turn  back  again. 

Zd  Boy.  Impossible!  Lord  John  has  just  given  his  pro- 
mise to  Wheeler  —  I  heard  him  with  my  own  ears 

(Several  speak  at  once.)  And  I  heard  him  — and  I !  —  and 
I!  —  and  I!     Huzza!     Wheeler  for  ever  ! 

Rory  Oh,  murder!  murder!  murder!  (aside.)  This  goes 
to  my  heart  —  it 's  all  my  doing  —  0,  my  poor  Talbot !  mur- 
der! murder!  murder!  But  I  won't  let  them  see  me  cast 
down,  and  it's  good  to  be  huzzaing,  at  all  events.  Huzza 
for  Talbot !     Talbot  for  ever !  huzza  !  [Exit 

Enter  Wheeler  and  Bursal. 

Wheel.  Who  was  that  huzzaing  for  Talbot  ? 

Rory.  (behind  the  scenes.)  Huzza  for  Talbot!  Talbot  for 
ever!  —  huzza! 

Burs.  Pooh !  it 's  only  Rory  O'Eyan,  or  the  roaring  lion, 
as  I  call  him  —  ha  !  ha !  ha !  —  Rory  O'Ryan,  alias  roaring 
lion  —  that 's  a  good  one  —  put  it  about,  Rory  O'Ryan,  the 
roaring  lion  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  —  but  you  do  n't  take  it  —  you 
do  n't  laugh,  Wheeler. 

Wheel.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  0,  upon  my  honour,  I  do  laugh  — 
ha!  ha!  ha!  —  (Aside.)  It  is  the  hardest  work  to  laugh  at 
his  wit.  —  (Aloud.)  Rory  O'Ryan,  the  roaring  lion!  —  ha! 
ha !  ha !  You  know  I  always  laugh,  Bursal,  at  your  jokes, 
he  !  he  !  he  !  ready  to  kill  myself. 

Burs,  (sullenly.)  You  are  easily  killed,  then,  if  that  much 
laughing  will  do  the  business. 

Wheel,  (coughing.)  Just  then — something — stuck  in  my 
throat — I  beg  your  pardon. 

Burs,  (still  sullen.)  0,  you  need  not  beg  my  pardon  about 
the  matter  —  I  do  n't  care  whether  you  laugh  or  no  —  not 
I.  Now  you  have  got  Lord  John  to  declare  for  you,  you 
are  above  laughing  at  my  jokes,  I  suppose. 

Wheel.  No  ;  upon  my  word  and  honour,  I  did  laugh. 

Burs,  (aside.)  A  fig  for  your  word  and  honour !  ( Aloud.) 


516  ETOI»     MONTEM. 

I  know  I  'm  of  no  consequence  now  ;  but,  you  '11  remember, 
that  if  his  lordship  has  the  honour  of  making  you  captain, 
he  must  have  the  honour  to  pay  for  your  captain's  accoutre- 
ments ;  for  I  shan't  pay  the  piper,  I  promise  you,  since  1  'm 
of  no  consequence. 

Wheel.  Of  no  consequence  !  But,  my  dear  Bursal,  what 
could  put  that  into  your  head  —  that's  the  strangest,  oddest 
fancy.  Of  no  consequence!  Bursal  of  no  consequence! 
why  everybody  that  knows  anything  —  everybody  that  has 
seen  Bursal-house,  knows  that  you  are  of  the  greatest  con- 
sequence, my  dear  Bursal. 

Burs,  [taking  out  his  watch,  and  opening  it,  looks  at  it.) 
No,  I  'm  of  no  consequence.  I  wonder  that  rascal  Finsbury 
is  not  come  yet  with  the  dresses.  {Still  looking  at  his 
watch.) 

Wheel,  {aside.)  If  Bursal  takes  it  into  his  head  not  to 
lend  me  the  money  to  pay  for  my  captain's  dress,  what  will 
become  of  me  ?  For  I  have  not  a  shilling  —  and  Lord  John 
won't  pay  for  me  —  and  Finsbury  has  orders  not  to  leave 
the  house  till  he  is  paid  by  everybody.  What  will  become 
of  me?     {Bites  his  nails.) 

Burs,  {aside.)  How  I  love  to  make  him  bite  his  nails !  — 
{aloud.)  I  know  I'm  of  no  consequence  —  {strikes  his 
repeater.) 

Wheel.  What  a  fine  repeater  that  is  of  yours,  Bursal!  It 
is  the  best  I  ever  heard. 

Burs.  So  it  well  may  be,  for  it  cost  a  mint  of  money. 

Wheel.  No  matter  to  you  what  anything  costs.  Happy 
dog  as  you  are  !  you  roll  in  money  —  and  yet  you  talk  of 
being  of  no  consequence. 

Burs.  But  I  am  not  of  half  so  much  consequence  as  Lord 
John  —  am  I? 

Wheel.  Are  you  ?  why,  are  n't  you  twice  as  rich  as  he  ? 

Burs.  Very  true,  but  I  'm  not  purse-proud. 

Wheel.  You  purse-prou  1 !  I  should  never  have  thought 
of  such  a  thing. 


El  ON     MONTEM.  517 

Burs.  Nor  I,  if  Talbot  had  not  used  the  word. 

Wheel.  But  Talbot  thinks  everybody  purse-proud  ta^t  has 
%  purse. 

Burs,  (aside.)  Well,  this  Wheeler  does  put  one  into  a 
good-humour  with  one's  self  in  spite  of  one's  teeth.  (Al<md.) 
Talbot  says  blunt  things,  but  I  don't  think  he's  what  you 
can  call  clever.     Hey,  Wheeler  ? 

Wheel.  Clever !     0,  not  he. 

Burs.  I  think  I  could  walk  round  him. 

Wheel.  To  be  sure  you  could.  Why,  do  you  know  I've 
quizzed  him  famously  myself  within  this  quarter  of  an 
hour? 

Burs.  Indeed !     I  wish  I  had  been  by. 

Wheel.  So  do  I,  faith  —  It  was  the  best  thing  —  I  wanted, 
you  see,  to  get  him  out  of  my  way,  that  I  might  have  the 
field  clear  for  electioneering  to-day.  So  I  bowls  up  to  him 
with  along  face  —  such  a  face  as  this — "Mr.  Talbot,  do 
you  know  —  I'm  sorry  to  tell  you,  here's  Jack  Smith  has 
just  brought  the  news  from  Salt  Hill.  Your  mother,  in 
getting  into  the  carriage,  slipped,  and  has  broke  her  leg,  and 
there  she 's  lying  at  a  farm-house,  two  miles  off.  '  Is  this 
not  true,  Jack?'  said  I.  '  I  saw  the  farmer  helping  her  in 
with  my  own  eyes/  cried  Jack.  Off  goes  Talbot  like  an 
arrow.     Quizzed  him,  Quizzed  him  !  said  I. 

Burs.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  quizzed  him  indeed,  with  all  his 
cleverness  ;  that  was  famously  done. 

Wheel.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  with  all  his  cleverness  he  will  be 
all  the  evening  hunting  for  the  farm-house  and  the  mother 
that  has  broke  her  leg.     So  he  is  out  of  our  way. 

Burs.  But  what  need  have  you  to  want  him  out  of  your 
way,  now  Lord  John  has  come  over  to  your  side  — you  have 
the  thing  so  dead? 

Wheel.  Not  so  dead  neither  —  for  there's  a  great  inde- 
pendent party,  you  know,  and  if  you  do  n't  help  me,  Bursal, 
to  canvass  them,  I  shall  be  no  captain.     It  is  you  I  depend 


518  ETON     MONTE  M  . 

upon,  after  all.   Will  you  come  and  canvass  them  with  me! 
—  Dear  Bursal,  pray.  —  All  depends  upon  you. 

[Pulls  him  by  the  arm  —  Bursal  follows. 

Burs.  Well,  if  all  depends  upon  rne,  I  '11  see  what  I  can 

do  for  you.  —  [Aside.)  Then  I  am  of  some  consequence  — 

money  makes  a  man  of  some  consequence,  I  see  —  with 

some  folk.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   II. 

In  the  back  scene  afiock  of  sheep  are  seen  penned.  In  front, 
a  party  of  country  lads  and  lasses  gayly  dressed,  as  in  sheep- 
shearing  time,  with  ribands  and  garlands  of  flowers,  &c, 
are  dancing  and  singing.* 

Enter  Patty,  dressed  as  Queen  of  the  Festival.     She  has  a 

lamb  in  her  arms.     The  dancers  break  off  when  she  comes 

in  ;  and  one  exclaims — 

1st  Peasant.  0,  here  comes  Patty  !  Here  comes  the  queen 
o'  the  day.     What  has  kept  you  from  us  so  long,  Patty  ? 

2d  Peas.  Please  your  majesty,  you  should  say. 

Patty.  This  poor  little  lamb  of  mine  was  what  kept  me 
so  long.  It  strayed  away  from  the  rest:  and  I 'should  have 
lost  him,  so  I  should,  for  ever,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  good 
young  gentleman.  Yonder  he  is,  talking  to  Farmer  Hearty. 
That 's  the  young  gentleman  who  pulled  my  lamb  out  of  the 
ditch  for  me,  into  which  he  had  fallen.     Pretty  creature ! 

1st  Peas.  Pretty  creature,  or  your  majesty,  whichever  you 
choose  to  be  called  —  come  and  dance  with  them,  and  I'll 
carry  your  lamb.  [Exeunt  singing  and  dancing. 

Enter  Farmer  Hearty  and  Talbot. 
Farm.  Why,  young  gentleman,  I  am  glad  I  happened  to 
light  upon  you  here,  and  so  to  hinder  you  from  going  far 
ther  astray,  and  set  your  heart  at  ease  like. 

*  The  young  reader  is  requested  to  insert  here  any  song  suitable 
to  the  occasion.  The  author  tried  to  write  one ;  but,  as  she  could 
not  write  one  that  pleased  herself,  sho  omitted  it. 


ETON     MONTEM.  519 

Talb,  Thanks,  good  farmer;  you  have  set  my  heart  at 
ease,  indeed ;  but  the  truth  is,  that  did  frighten  me  con- 
foundedly.    More  fool  I. 

Farm.  No  fool  at  all,  to  my  notion.  I  should,  at  your 
age,  ay,  or  my  age,  just  the  self-same  way,  have  been  fright- 
ened myself,  if  so  be  that  mention  had  been  made  to  me, 
that  way,  of  my  own  mother's  having  broke  her  leg,  or  so. 
And  greater,  by  a  great  deal,  the  shame  for  them  that 
frighted  you,  than  for  you  to  be  frighted.  How  young  gen- 
tlemen, now,  can  bring  themselves  for  to  like  to  tell  such 
lies,  is  to  me,  now,  a  matter  of  amazement,  like,  that  I  can't 
get  over  no  ways. 

Talb.  0,  farmer,  such  lies  are  very  witty,  though  you  and 
I  don't  just  now  like  the  wit  of  them.  This  is  fun,  this  is 
quizzing;  but  you  don't  know  what  we  young  gentlemen 
mean  by  quizzing. 

Farm.  Ay,  but  I  do  though,  to  my  cost,  ever  since  last 
year.  Look  you,  now,  at  yon  fine  field  of  wheat.  "Well,  it 
was  just  as  fine,  and  finer,  last  year,  till  «,  young  Eton  jack- 
anapes— 

Talb.  Take  care  what  you  say,  farmer ;  for  I  am  a  young 
Eton  jackanapes. 

Farm.  No,  but  you  be  not  the  young  Eton  jackanapes 
that  I  'm  thinking  on  —  I  tell  you,  it  was  this  time  last  year, 
man  ;  he  was  a  horseback,  I  tell  ye,  mounted  upon  a  fine  bay 
hunter,  out  o'  hunting,  like. 

Talb.  I  tell  you,  it  was  this  time  last  year,  man,  that  I 
was  mounted  upon  a  fine  bay  hunter,  out  a  hunting. 

Farm.  Zooks !  would  you  argufy  a  man  out  of  his  wits  ? 
5Tou  won't  go  for  to  tell  me,  that  you  are  that  impertinent 
little  jackanapes  ? 

Talb.  No !  no !  I  '11  not  tell  you,  that  I  am  un  imperti- 
nent little  jackanapes. 

Farm,  {wiping  his  forehead .)  "Well,  do  n't  then  for  I  can't 
believe  it ;  and  you  put  me  out.     Where  was  I  ? 

Talb.  Mounted  upon  a  fine  bay  hunter  ! 


520  ETON     MONTEM. 

Farm.  Ay  bo  he  was.  Here,  you,  says  he,  meaning  me 
—  open  this  gate  for  me.  Now,  if  he  had  but  a  spoke  me 
fair,  J  would  not  have  gainsayed  him  ;  but  he  falls  to  swear- 
ing ;  so  I  bid  him  open  the  gate  for  himself —  "  There  *s  a 
bull  behind  you,  farmer,"  says  he  —  I  turns.  "  Quizzed 
him  \"  cries  my  jackanapes ;  and  off  he  gallops  him, 
through  the  very  thick  of  my  corn ;  but  he  got  a  fall  leap- 
ing the  ditch,  out  yonder,  which  pacified  me,  like,  at  the 
minute.  So  I  goes  up  to  see  whether  he  was  killed ;  but  he 
was  not  a  whit  the  worse  for  his  tumble.  So  I  should  ha' 
fell  into  a  passion  with  him  then  to  be  sure,  about  my  corn, 
but  his  horse  had  got  such  a  terrible  sprain,  I  could  n't  say 
anything  to  him,  for  I  was  a  pitying  the  poor  animal.  As 
fine  a  hunter  as  ever  you  saw !  I  am  sartain  sure  he  could 
never  come  to  good  after. 

Talb.  {aside.)  I  do  think,  from  the  description,  that  this 
was  Wheeler ;  and  I  have  paid  for  the  horse  which  he 
spoiled  !  —  {Aloud.)  Should  you  know  either  the  man  or  the 
horse  again,  if  you  were  to  see  them  ? 

Farm.  Ay,  that  I  should,  to  my  dying  day. 

Talb.  Will  you  come  with  me,  then,  and  you  '11  do  me 
some  guineas'  worth  of  service  ? 

Farm.  Ay,  that  I  will,  with  a  deal  of  pleasure ;  for  you 
be  a  civil-spoken  young  gentleman,  and,  besides,  I  don't 
think  the  worse  onjou  for  being  frighted  a  little  *»Doutyour 
mother  ;  being  what  I  might  ha'  been  at  your  age,  myself; 
for  I  had  a  mother  myself  once.     So,  lead  on,  master. 

[Exeunt 

ACT  III.  — SCENE  I. 

The  Garden  of  the  Windmill  Inn,  at  Salt  Hill. 
Miss  Bursal,  Mrs.  Newington,  Sally  the  chambermaid. 
(Miss  Bursal,  very  much  distressed,  is  sitting  on  a  garden- 
stool,  and  leans  her  her  head  against  the  Landlady,  as  if 
fainting  —  Sally  holds  a  glass  of  water  and  a  smdfcng 
bottle.) 
Miss  B.  Where  am  I  ?     Where  am  I  ? 


ETONMONTEM.  52 1 

Landlady.  At  the  Winch  nil  at  Salt  Hill,  young  lady  ;  and 
ill  or  well  you  can't  be  better. 

Sally.  Do  you  find  yourself  better  since  coming  intc  the 
air,  miss  ? 

Miss  B.  Better!     Oh,  I  shall  never  be  better. 

[Leans  her  head  on  her  hand,  and  rocks  herself 
backwards  and  forwards. 

Landlady.  My  dear  young  lady,  do  n't  take  on  so.  — 
(Aside.)  Now  would  I  give  somewhat  to  know  what  it  was 
my  Lady  Piercefield  said  to  the  father,  and  what  the  father 
said  to  this  one,  and  what's  the  matter  at  the  bottom  of 
affairs.  —  Sally,  did  you  hear  anything  at  the  doors  ? 

Sally,  (aside.)  No,  indeed,  ma'am :  I  never  he's  at  the 
doors. 

Landlady,  (aside.)  Simpleton  !  —  (Aloud.)  But,  my  dear 
Miss  Bursal  —  if  I  may  be  so  bold  —  if  you'd  only  disem- 
bosom your  mind  of  what's  on  it — 

Miss  B.  Disembosom  my  mind !  Nonsense  !  I  've  nothing 
on  my  mind.     Pray,  leave  me,  madam. 

Landlady,  (aside.)  Madam,  indeed  !  —  Madam,  forsooth! 
0,  I'll  make  her  pay  for  that.  That  madam  shall  go  down 
in  the  bill,  as  sure  as  my  name's  Newington.  (Aloud.) 
Well,  I  wish  you  better,  ma'am.  I  suppose  I  'd  best  send 
your  own  servant. 

Miss  B.  (sullenly.)  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  —  (To  Sally.)  You 
need  not  wait,  child,  nor  look  so  curious. 

Sally.  Cur'ous  !  Indeed,  miss,  if  I  look  a  little  cur'ous, 
or  so  (looking  at  her  dress),  'tis  only  because  I  was  frighted 
to  see  you  take  on,  which  made  me  forget  my  clean  apron, 
when  I  came  out;  and  this  apron — 

Miss  B.  Hush!  Hush!  child.  —  Don't  tell  me  about 
clean  aprons,  or  run  on  with  your  vulgar  talk.  Is  there 
ever  a  seat  one  can  sit  on  in  that  harbour  yonder  ? 

Sally.  0.  dear  'art,  yes,  miss,  'tis  the  pleasantest  Aarbour 
on  dearth.  Be  pleased  to  lean  on  my  7iarm,  and  you  '11  soon 
be  there. 


522  ETON     MONTEM. 

Miss  B.  {going.)  Then  tell  my  woman  she  need  not  come 
to  me,  and  let  nobody  irderude  on  me  —  do  you  'ear? — 
{Aside.)  0,  what  will  become  of  me ;  and  the  Talbots  will 
soon  know  it !  —  And  the  ponies,  and  the  curricle,  and  the 
vis-a-vis — what  will  become  of  them?  and  how  shall  1 
make  my  appearance  at  the  Montem,  or  any  ware  else? 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   II. 
Lord  John  —  Wheeler  —  Bursal. 

Wheel.  "Well,  but,  my  lord  —  though  my  Lady  Piercefield 
—  though  Miss  Bursal  is  come  to  Salt  Hill,  you  won't  leave 
us  all  at  sixes  and  sevens.  "What  can  we  do  without 
you? 

Lord  J.  You  can  do  very  well  without  me. 

Burs,  you  can  do  very  well  without  me. 

Wheel,  (to  Burs.)  Impossible!  —  impossible!  You  know 
Mr.  Finsbury  will  be  here  just  now,  with  the  dresses;  and 
we  have  to  try  them  on. 

Burs.  And  to  pay  for  them. 

Wheel.  And  to  settle  about  the  procession.  And  then, 
my  lord,  the  election  is  to  come  on  this  evening ;  you  won't 
go  till  that 's  over,  as  your  lordship  has  promised  me  your 
lordship's  vote  and  interest. 

Lord  J.  My  vote  I  promised  you,  Mr.  Wheeler ;  but  I  said 
not  a  syllable  about  my  interest.  My  friends,  perhaps,  have 
not  been  offended,  though  I  have,  by  Mr.  Talbot.  I  shall 
leave  them  to  their  own  inclinations. 

Bursal,  (whistling.)  Wheugh  !  —  wheugh  !  —  wheugh  !— 
Wheeler,  the  principal 's  nothing  without  the  interest. 

Wheel.  0,  the  interest  will  go  along  with  the  principal, 
of  course  ;  for,  I  am  persuaded,  if  my  lord  leaves  his  friends 
to  their  inclinations,  it  will  be  the  inclination  of  my  lord's 
friends  to  Tote  as  he  does,  if  he  says  nothing  to  them  to  the 
contrary. 


ETON     MO  NT  EM.  523 

Lord  J.  I  told  you,  Mr.  Wheeler,  that  I  should  leave  them 
to  themselves. 

Burs,  [still  whistling.)  "Well,  I  '11  do  my  best  to  make  that 
father  of  mine  send  me  off  to  Oxford.  I  'm  pure  I  'm  fit  to 
go  —  along  with  Wheeler.  Why,  you  'd  best  be  my  tutor, 
Wheeler !  —  a  devilish  good  thought. 

Wheel.  An  excellent  thought! 

Burs.  And  a  cursed  fine  dust  we  should  kick  up  at  Oxford 
with  your  Montem  money  and  all !  —  Money 's  the  go,  after 
all.  I  wish  it  was  come  to  my  making  you  my  last  bow, 
"  ye  distant  spires,  ye  antic  towers !" 

Wheel,  {aside  to  Lord  J.)  Ye  antic  towers ! — fit  for  Oxford, 
my  lord ! 

Lord  J.  Antique  towers,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Bursal  means. 

Burs.  Antique,  to  be  sure!  I  said  antique,  did  not  I, 
Wheeler? 

Wheel.  0,  yes. 

Lord  J.  {aside.)  What  a  mean  animal  is  this ! 

Enter  Rorv  O'Ryan. 

Rory.  Why,  now,  what's  become  of  Talbot,  I  want  to 

know  ?     There,  he  is  not  to  be  found  anywhere  in  the  wide 

world ;  and  there  'a  a  hullaboloo  among  his  friends  for  him. 

[  Wheeler  and  Bursal  wink  at  one  another. 

Wheel.  We  know  nothing  of  him. 

Lord  J.  I  have  not  the  honour,  sir,  to  be  one  of  Mr. 
Talbot's  friends.  It  is  his  own  fault,  and  I  am  sorry  for 
it. 

Bory.  Faith,  so  am  I,  especially  as  it  is  mine  —  fault,  I 
mean  —  and  especially  as  the  election  is  just  going  to  come 
on. 

Enter  a  party  of  boys,  who  cry,  Finsbury  's  come !  —  Fins- 
bury  's  come  with  the  dresses. 

Wheel.  Finsbury 's  come  !  '0,  let  us  see  the  dresses,  and 
let  us  try  'em  on  to-night. 

Burs,  (pushing  the  crowd.)   On  with  ye  —  on  with  ye, 


524  ETON     MONTEM. 

there!  —  Let's  try  'em  on!  —  Try  'em  on!  —  I'm  to  be 

colonel. 

1*2  boy.  And  I  lieutenant. 

2d  boy.  And  I  ensign. 

Zd  boy.  And  I  college  salt-bearer. 

4th  boy.  And  I  oppident. 

5th  boy.  0,  what  a  pity  I  'm  in  mourning ! 

Several  speak  at  once.  And  we  are  servitors ;  we  are  to 
be  the  eight  servitors. 

Wheel.  And  I  am  to  be  your  captain,  I  hope.  Come  on, 
my  colonel —  (to  Bursal.)  My  lord,  you  are  coming? 

Rory.  By-and-bye  —  I  've  a  word  in  his  ear,  by  your  lave 
and  his. 

Burs.  Why,  what  the  devil  stops  the  way,  there  ?  —  Push 
on  —  on  with  them. 

6th  boy.  I  'm  marshal. 

Burs.  On  with  ye  —  on  with  ye  —  who  cares  what  you 
are? 

Wheeler,  (to  Bursal  aside.)  You  '11  pay  Finsbury  for  mej 
you  rich  Jew  ?  —  (to  Lord  John.)  Your  lordship  will  remem- 
ber your  lordship's  promise  ? 

Lord  J.  I  do  not  usually  forget  my  promises,  sir ;  and 
therefore  need  not  be  reminded  of  them. 

Wheel.  I  beg  pardon  —  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons,  my 
lord. 

Burs,  (taking  him  by  the  arm.)  Come  on,  man,  and  do  n't 
stand  begging  pardon  there,  or  I  '11  leave  you. 

Wheel,  (to  Burs.)  I  beg  pardon,  Bursal  —  I  beg  pardon, 
ten  thousand  times.  [Exeunt 

Manent  Lord  John  and  Bory  O'Ryan. 

Rory.  "Wheugh  !  Now,  put  the  case,  —  if  I  was  going  to 
be  hanged,  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  n't  be  after  begging  so 
many  pardons  for  nothing  at  all.  But  many  men,  many 
minds.  —  (Hums.)  True  game  to  the  last!  No  Wheeler  for 
me  !  0,  murder !  I  forgot  I  was  nigh  letting  the  cat  out  o' 
the  bag  again. 


ETON     MONTEM.  525 

Lord  J.  You  had  something  to  say  to  me,  sir.  I  wait  till 
your  recollection  returns. 

Rory.  Faith,  and  that's  very  kind  of  you  ;  and  if  you 
had  always  done  so,  you  would  never  have  been  offended 
with  me,  my  lord. 

Lord  J.  You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  O'Ryan,  if  you  think  that 
you  did  or  could  offend  me. 

Rory.  Mistaken  I  was,  then,  sure  enough  :  hut  we  're  all 
liable  to  mistakes,  and  should  forget  and  forgive  one  ano 
ther  —  that's  the  way  to  go  through. 

Lord  J.  You  will  go  through  the  world  your  own  way, 
Mr.  O'Ryan,  and  allow  me  to  go  through  it  my  way. 

Rory.  Very  fair  —  fair  enough  —  then  we  shan't  cross. 
But  now,  to  come  to  the  point:  I  do  n't  like  to  be  making 
disagreeable  retrospects,  if  I  could  in  any  way  avoid  it ;  nor 
to  be  going  about  the  bush,  especially  at  this  time  o'  day, 
when,  as  Mr.  Finsbury's  come,  we've  not  so  much  time  as 
we  had  to  lose.  Is  it  true,  then,  my  lord,  the  report  that  is 
going  about  this  hour  past,  that  you  have  gone  in  a  huff, 
and  given  your  promise  there  to  that  sneaking  Wheeler,  to 
vote  for  him  now  ? 

Lord  J.  In  answer  to  your  question,  sir,  I  am  to  inform 
you  that  I  have  promised  Mr.  Wheeler  to  vote  for  him. 

Rory.  In  a  huff?  Ay,  now,  there  it  is !  Well,  when  a 
man's  mad,  to  be  sure  he's  mad  —  and  that's  all  that  can 
be  said  about  it.  And  I  know,  if  I  had  been  mad  myself, 
I  might  have  done  a  foolish  thing  as  well  as  another.  But 
now,  my  lord,  that  you  are  not  mad — 

Lord  J.  I  protest,  sir,  I  cannot  understand  you.  In  one 
word,  sir,  I  'm  neither  mad  nor  a  fool.  Your  most  obedi- 
ent, {going,  angrily.) 

Rory.  [holding  him.)  Take  care,  now,  you  are  going  mad 
with  me  again.  But,  phoo !  I  like  ye  the  better  for  being 
mad.  I  'm  very  often  mad  myself,  and  I  would  not  give  a 
potatoe  for  one  that  had  never  been  mad  in  his  life. 

Lord  J.  [aside.)  He'll  not  be  quiet  til]  he  makes  me  knock 
him  down. 


526  ETON    MONTEM. 

Rory.  .Agh !  agh !  agh  !  I  begin  to  guess  whereabouts  I  anj 
at  last.  Mad  in  your  country,  I  take  it,  means  fit  for  Bed- 
lam ;  but  with  us  in  Ireland,  now,  't  is  no  such  thing.  It 
means  nothing  in  life  but  the  being  in  a  passion.  Well,  one 
comfort  is,  my  lord,  as  you  're  a  bit  of  a  scholar,  we  have 
the  Latin  proverb  in  our  favour,  —  "  Ira  furor  brevis  est "  — 
Anger's  short  madness.  The  shorter  the  better,  I  think. 
So,  my  lord,  to  put  an  end  to  whatever  of  this  kind  you  may 
have  felt  against  poor  Talbot,  I  '11  assure  you  he 's  as  inno- 
cent o'  that  unfortunate  song  as  the  babe  unborn. 

Lord  J.  It  is  rather  late  for  Mr.  Talbot  to  make  apologies 
to  me. 

Rory.  He  make  apologies  !  Not  he,  faith :  he  'd  send  me 
to  Coventry,  or,  maybe,  to  a  worse  place,  did  he  but  know 
I  was  condescending  to  make  this  bit  of  explanation 
unknown  to  him.  But,  upon  my  conscience,  I  've  a  regard 
for  ye  both,  and  do  n't  like  to  see  you  go  together  by  the 
ears.  Now,  look  you,  my  lord  —  by  this  book,  and  all  the 
books  that  ever  were  shut  and  opened,  he  never  saw  or  heard 
of  that  unlucky  song  of  mine  till  I  came  out  with  it  this 
morning. 

Lord  J.  But  you  told  me  this  morning  that  it  was  he 
wrote  it. 

Rory.  For  that  I  take  shame  to  myself,  as  it  turned  out ; 
but  it  was  only  a  white  lie  to  sarve  a  friend,  and  make  him 
cut  a  dash  with  a  new  song  at  election-time.  But  I  've  done 
for  ever  with  white  lies. 

Lord  J.  (walking  about,  as  if  agitated.)  I  wish  you  had 
never  begun  with  them,  Mr.  O'Ryan.  This  may  be  a  good 
joke  to  you ;  but  it  is  none  to  me  or  Talbot.  So  Talbot 
never  wrote  a  word  of  the  song  ? 

Rory.  Not  a  word  or  syllable,  good  or  bad. 

Lord  J.  And  I  have  given  my  promise  to  vote  against 
him.     He  '11  lose  his  election. 

Rory.  Not  if  you  '11  give  me  leave  to  speak  to  your  friends 
in  your  name. 


ETON     MONTEM.  527 

Lord  J.  I  have  promised  to  leave  them  to  themselves,  and 
Wheeler,  I  am  sure,  has  engaged  them  by  this  time. 

Rory.  Bless  my  body !  I  '11  not  stay  prating  here,  then. 

[Exit  Rory 

Lord  J.  (follows.)  But  what  can  have  become  of  Talbot? 
I  have  been  too  hasty  for  once  in  my  life.  Well,  I  shall 
suffer  for  it  more  than  anybody  else  ;  for  I  love  Talbot,  since 
he  did  not  make  the  song,  of  which  I  hate  to  think.    [Exit. 

SCENE   III. 

A  large  hall  in  Eton  College  —  a  staircase  at  the  end  —  Eton 
lads  dressed  in  their  Montem  dresses  in  the  back  scene  — 
in  front,  "Wheeler  (dressed  as  Captain),  Bursal,  and 
Finsbury. 

Fins.  I  give  you  infinite  credit,  Mr.  Wheeler,  for  this 
dress. 

Burs.  Infinite  credit!  "Why,  he'll  have  no  objection  to 
that  —  eh,  "Wheeler?  But  I  thought  Finsbury  knew  you 
too  well  to  give  you  credit  for  anything. 

Fins.  You  are  pleased  to  be  pleasant,  sir.  Mr.  Wheeler 
knows,  in  that  sense  of  the  word,  it  is  out  of  my  power  to 
give  him  credit,  and  I  'm  sure  he  would  not  ask  it. 

Wheel,  (aside.)  0,  Bursal,  pay  him,  and  I'll  pay  you 
to-morrow. 

Burs.  Now,  if  you  weren't  to  be  captain  after  all, 
Wheeler,  what  a  pretty  figure  you  'd  cut !  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 
eh  ? 

Wheel.  0,  I'm  as  sure  of  being  captain  as  of  being  alive. 
—  (Aside.)  Do  pay  for  me,  now  —  there's  a  good  dear  fel- 
low !  before  they  (looking  back)  come  up. 

Burs,  (aside.)  I  love  to  make  him  lick  the  dust ! — (Aloud.) 
Ilolla!  here's  Finsbury  waiting  to  be  paid,  lads.  (To  the 
lads  who  are  in  the  back  scene.)  Who  has  paid,  and  who  has 
not  paid,  I  say  ? 

[The  lads  come  forward,  and  several  exclaim  at 
once,  "  I  've  paid !  I  've  paid  I" 


528  ETON     MONTEM. 

Enter  Lord  John  and  Rory  O'Ryan. 

Rory.  0,  King  of  Fashion,  how  fine  we  are !  Why,  now, 
to  look  at  ye  all,  one  might  fancy  one's  self  at  the  playhouse 
at  once,  or  at  a  fancy  ball  in  dear  little  Dublin.  Come, 
strike  up  a  dance  ! 

Burs.  Pshaw !  wherever  you  come,  Rory  O'Ryan,  no  one 
else  can  be  heard.  Who  has  paid,  and  who  has  not  paid,  I 
say? 

Several  boys  exclaim,  We  've  all  paid. 

1st  boy.  I've  not  paid,  but  here's  my  money. 

Several  boys.  We  have  not  paid,  but  here 's  our  money. 

6th  boy.  Order  there  !  I  am  marshal.  All  that  have  paid, 
march  off  to  the  staircase,  and  take  your  seats  there,  one  by 
one.  —  March. 

[As  they  march  by,  one  by  one,  so  as  to  display 
their  dresses,  Mr.  Finsbury  bows,  and  says : 

A  thousand  thanks,  gentlemen  —  Thank  you,  gentlemen. 
—  Thanks,  gentlemen.  —  The  finest  sight  I  ever  saw  out  of 
Lon'on. 

Rory,  as  each  lad  passes,  catches  his  arm,  —  Are  you  a 
Talbotife,  or  a  WheelenVel*  —  To  each  who  answers  A 
Wheelerite,  Rory  replies,  "Phoo —  dance  off,  then"  —  Go  to 
the  Devil  and  shake  yourself.*  —  Each  who  answers  A  TaU 
totite,  Rory  shakes  by  the  hand  violently,  singing, 

"Talbot,  0  Talbot's  the  dog  for  Rory." 

When  they  have  almost  passed,  Lord  John  says  —  But 
where  can  Mr.  Talbot  be  all  this  time. 

Burs.  Who  knows  ?  who  cares  ? 

Wheel.  A  pretty  electioneerer !  —  (Aside  to  Bursal.)  Fins- 
bury  'b  waiting  to  be  paid. 

Lord  J.  You  do  n't  wait  for  me,  Mr.  Finsbury.  You  know 
I  have  settled  with  you. 

Fins.  Yes,  my  lord,  yes  —  many  thanks;  and  I  have  left 

*  This  is  the  name  of  a  country  dance. 


ETON     MONTEM.  529 

your  lordship's  dress  here,  and  everybody's  dress,  I  believe, 
as  bespoke. 

Burs.  Here,  Finsbury 's,  the  money  for  "Wheeler,  who, 
between  you  and  I,  is  as  poor  as  a  rat. 

Wheeler,  (affecting  to  laugh.)  Well,  I  hope  I  shall  be  as 
rich  as  a  Jew  to-morrow. 

[Bursal  counts  money  in  an  ostentatious  manner 
into  Finsbury' s  hand. 

Fins.  A  thousand  thanks  for  all  favours. 

Rory.  You  '11  be  kind  enough  to  lave  Mr.  Talbot's  dress 
with  me,  Mr.  Finsbury,  for  I'm  a  friend. 

Fins.  Indubitably,  sir  ;  but  the  misfortune  is  —  he  !  he  I 
he!  —  Mr.  Talbot,  sir,  has  bespoke  no  dress.  —  Your  ser- 
vant, gentlemen.  [Exit  Finsbury. 

Burs.  So  your  friend  Mr.  Talbot  could  not  afford  to 
bespeak  a  dress.  —  (Bursal  and  Wheeler  laugh  insolently.) 
How  comes  that,  I  wonder? 

Lord  J.  If  I  'm  not  mistaken,  here  comes  Talbot  to  answer 
for  himself. 

Rory.  But  who,  in  the  name  of  St.  Patrick,  has  he  along 
with  him  ? 

Enter  Talbot  and  Landlord. 

Jhlb.  Come  in  along  with  us,  Farmer  Hearty  — -Come  in. 
[While  the  Farmer  comes  in,  the  boys,  who  were 
sitting  on  the  stairs,  rise  and  exclaim — 
Whom  have  we  here  ?  what  now  ?  come  down,  lads,  here's 
more  fun. 

Rory.  What's  here,  Talbot? 

Talb.  An  honest  farmer,  and  a  good-natured  landlord, 
who  would  come  here  along  with  me  to  speak — 

Farm,  (interrupting.)  To  speak  the  truth  —  (strikes  his 
stick  on  the  ground.) 

Landlord,  (unbuttoning  his  waistcoat.)  But  I  am  so  not — 
bo  short-winded  (panting  and  puffing),  that  for  the  soul  and 
body  of  me,  I  cannot  say  what  I  have  got  for  to  say. 
34 


530  ETON    MONTEM. 

Rory.  Faith,  now,  the  more  short-winded  a  story  the  bet- 
ter, to  my  fancy. 

Burs.  Wheeler,  what's  the  matter,  man?  you  look  as  if 
your  under-jaw  was  broke. 

Farm.  The  matter  is,  young  gentleman,  that  there  was 
once  upon  a  time  a  fine  bay  hunter. 

Wheel,  [squeezing  up  to  Talbot  aside.)  Don't  expose  mo, 
don't  let  him  tell.  [To  the  Farmer.)  I'll  pay  for  the  corn  I 
spoiled.  [To  the  Landlord.)  I'll  pay  for  the  horse. 

Farm.  I  does  not  want  to  be  paid  for  my  corn ;  the  short 
of  it  is,  young  gentlemen,  this  'un  here  in  the  fine  thing- 
em-bobs  [pointing  to  Wheeler)  is  a  shabby  fellow  —  he  went 
and  spoiled  Master  Newington's  best  hunter. 

Land,  [panting.)  Ruinationed  him,  ruinationed  him. 

Rory.  But  was  that  all  the  shabbiness  ?  Now  I  might, 
or  any  of  us  might,  have  had  such  an  accident  as  that ;  I 
suppose  he  paid  the  gentleman  for  the  horse  —  or  will  do  so 
in  good  time. 

Land,  [holding  his  sides.)  0  that  I  had  but  a  little  breath 
in  this  body  o'  mine  to  speak  all  —  speak  on,  Farmer. 

Farm,  (striking  his  stick  on  the  floor.)  Oons,  sir,  when  a 
man 's  put  out,  he  can't  go  on  with  his  story. 

Omnes.  Be  quiet,  Rory  —  hush. 

[Rory  puts  hisjlnger  on  his  lips. 

Farm.  "Why,  sir,  I  was  a-going  to  tell  you  the  shabbiness. 
— Why,  sir,  he  did  not  pay  Landlord  here  for  the  horse,  but 
he  goes  and  says  to  the  Landlord  here  —  "  Mr.  Talbot  had 
your  horse  on  the  self-same  day ;  'twas  he  did  the  damage, 
'tis  from  he  you  must  get  your  money."  —  So  Mr.  Talbot 
here,  who  is  another-guess  sort  of  a  gentleman  (though  ho 
has  not  so  fine  a  coat),  would  not  see  a  man  at  a  loss  that 
could  not  afford  it ;  and  not  knowing  which  of  'em  it  was 
that  spoiled  the  horse,  goes,  when  he  finds  the  other  would 
not  pay  a  farthing,  and  pays  it  all. 

Rory.  [rubbing  his  hands.)  There 's  a  Talbot  for  ye.  And 
now,  gentlemen,  (to  Wheeler  and  Bursal),  you  guess  the 


ETON     MONTEM.  531 

rason,  as  T  do,  I  suppose,  why  he  bespoke  no  dress  —  he  had 
not  money  enough  to  be  line  and  honest  too — You  are  very 
fine,  Mr.  Wheeler,  to  do  you  justice. 

Lord  J.  Pray,  Mr.  O'Ryan,  let  the  Farmer  go  on — he  has 
more  to  say.  How  did  you  find  out,  pray,  my  good  friend, 
that  it  was  not  Talbot  who  spoiled  the  horse  ?  —  Speak  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  everybody. 

Farm.  Ay,  that  I  will  —  I  say  (very  loudly)  I  say  I  saw 
him  there  (pointing  to  Wheeler)  take  the  jump  which  strained 
the  horse  —  and  I'm  ready  to  swear  to  it  —  Yet,  he  let  ano- 
ther pay  —  there's  the  shabbiness. 

[A  general  groan  from  all  the  lads —  "  Oh  shabby 
Wheeler,  shabby !  I'll  not  vote  for  shabby 
Wheeler!" 

Lord  J.  (aside.)  Alas !  I  must  vote  for  him. 

Rory  sings. 

"True  game  to  the  last,  no  Wheeler  for  me ; 
Talbot!  0  Talbot's  the  dog  for  me." 

[Several  voices  join  the  chorus. 
Burs.  Wheeler,  if  you  are  not  chosen  captain  you  must 
see  and  pay  me  for  the  dress. 
Wheel.  I  am  as  poor  as  a  rat. 

Rory.  0  yes !  0  yes !  hear  ye !  hear  ye,  all  manner  of 
men  —  the  election  is  now  going  to  begin  forthwith  in  the 
big  field,  and  Rory  O'Ryan  holds  the  poll  for  Talbot— -Tal- 
bot for  ever,  huzza ! 

[Exit  Rory,  followed  by  the  boys,  who  exclaim,  — 
"  Talbot  for  ever,  huzza."    The  Landlord  and 
Farmer  join  them. 
Lord  J.  Talbot,  I  'm  glad  you  are  what  I  always  thought 
you  —  I'm  glad  you  did  not  write  that  odious   song  —  I 
would  not  lose  such  a  friend  for  all  the  songs  in  the  world 
—  Forgive  me  for  my  hastiness  this  morning  —  I've  pun- 
ished myself — I've  promised  to  vote  for  Wheeler. 


532  ETON     MONTEM. 

Tilb.  0,  no  matter  whom  you  vote  for,  my  lord,  if  you 
are  still  my  friend,  and  if  you  know  me  to  be  yours. 

[They  shake  hands. 
Lord  J.  I  must  not  say,  "  Huzza  for  Talbot!"      [Exeunt. 


SCENE   IV. 
Windsor  Terrace. 

Lady  Piercefield — Mrs.  Talbot — Louisa,  and  a  little  girl 
of  six  years  old,  Lady  Violetta,  daughter  to  Lady  Pierce- 
field. 

Violetta.  (looking  at  a  paper,  which  Louisa  holds.)  I  like 
it  very  much. 

Lady  P.  What  is  it  that  you  like  very  much,  Violetta? 

Violet.  You  are  not  to  know  yet,  mamma;  it  is  —  I  may 
tell  her  that  —  it  is  a  little  drawing  that  Louisa  is  doing  for 
me.     Louisa,  I  wish  you  would  let  me  show  it  to  mamma. 

Louisa.  And  welcome,  my  dear ;  it  is  only  a  sketch  of 
"  The  Little  Merchants/'  a  story  which  Violetta  was  read- 
ing, and  she  asked  me  to  try  to  draw  the  pictures  of  the 
little  merchants  for  her. 

[While  Lady  P.  looks  at  the  drawing,  Violetta 
says  to  Louisa, 

But  are  you  in  earnest,  Louisa,  about  what  you  were  say- 
ing to  me  just  now  —  quite  in  earnest? 

Louisa.  Yes,  in  earnest  —  quite  in  earnest,  my  dear. 

Violet.  And  may  I  ask  mamma  now? 

Louisa.  If  you  please,  my  dear. 

Violet,  (runs  to  her  mother.)  Stoop  down  to  me,  mamma, 
I  Ve  something  to  whisper  to  you. 

[Lady  Piercefield  stoops  down.     Violetta  throws 
her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck. 

Violet,  (aside  to  her  mother.)  Mamma,  do  you  kncv— you 
know  you  want  a  governess  for  me. 

Lady  P.  Yes,  if  I  could  find  a  good  one. 


ETON     MONTEM.  533 

Violet,  {aloud.)  Stoop  again,  mamma,  I've  more  fo  whis- 
per. {Aside  to  her  mother.}  She  says  she  will  be  my  govern- 
ess, if  you  please. 

Lady  P.  She  I  —  who  is  she  ? 

Violet.  Louisa. 

Lady  P.  (patting  Violetta!  s  cheek.)  You  are  a  little  fool — 
Miss  Talbot  is  only  playing  with  you. 

Violet.  No,  indeed,  mamma,  she  is  in  earnest;  are  not 
you,  Louisa?  —  0,  say  yes. 

Louisa.  Yes. 

Violet,  (clasps  her  hands.)  Yes,  mamma;  do  you  hear, 
yes. 

Louisa.  If  Lady  Piercefield  will  trust  you  to  my  care  — 
I  am  persuaded,  that  I  should  be  much  happier  as  your 
governess,  my  little  Violetta,  than  as  an  humble  dependant 
of  Miss  Bursal's.  (Aside  to  her  mother.)  You  see  that,  now 
I  am  put  to  the  trial,  I  keep  to  my  resolution,  dear  mother. 

Mrs.  T.  Your  ladyship  would  not  be  surprised  at  this  offer 
of  my  Louisa,  if  you  had  heard,  as  we  have  done  within 
these  few  hours,  of  the  loss  of  the  East  India  ship,  in  which 
almost  our  whole  property  was  embarked. 

Louisa.  The  Bombay  Castle  is  wrecked. 

Lady  P.  The  Bombay  Castle  1  I  have  the  pleasure  to  tell 
you  that  you  are  misinformed ;  it  was  the  Airly  Castle  that 
was  wrecked. 

Louisa  and  Mrs.  T.  Indeed ! 

Lady  P.  Yes,  you  may  depend  upon  it,  it  was  the  Airly 
Castle  that  was  lost.  You  know  I  am  just  come  from  Ports- 
mouth, where  I  went  to  meet  my  brother,  Governor  Morton, 
who  came  home  with  the  last  India  fleet,  and  from  whom 
I  had  the  intelligence. 

[Here  Violetta  interrupts,  to  ask  her  mother  for 
her  nosegay  —  Lady  P.  gives  it  to  her,  and 
then  goes  on  speaking. 

Lady  P.  They  were  in  such  haste,  foolish  people  1  to  carry 
their  news  to  London,  that  they  mistook  ono  castle  for  ano- 


584  ETON     MONTBM. 

ther.  But,  do  you  know  that  Mr.  Bursal  loses  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds,  it  is  said,  by  the  Airly  Castle.  "When  I  told 
him  she  was  lost,  I  thought  he  would  have  dropped  down , 
however,  I  found  he  comforted  himself  afterward  with  a 
bottle  of  Burgundy  ;  but  poor  Miss  Bursal  has  been  in  hys- 
terics ever  since. 

Mrs.  T.  Poor  girl !  My  Louisa,  you  did  not  fall  into  hys- 
terics, when  I  told  you  of  the  loss  of  our  whole  fortune. 

[  Violetta,  during  this  dialogue,  has  been  seated  on 
the  ground  making  up  a  nosegay. 

Violet,  [aside.)  Fall  into  hysterics!  What  are  hyste- 
rics, I  wonder. 

Louisa.  Miss  Bursal  is  much  to  be  pitied,  — for  the  loss 
of  wealth  will  be  the  loss  of  happiness  to  her. 

Lady  P.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  loss  may  at  least  check 
the  foolish  pride  and  extravagance  of  young  Bursal,  who, 
as  my  son  tells  me — 

[A  cry  of  "  Huzza!  huzza  V  behind  the  scenes. 

Enter  Lord  John. 
Lord  J.  [hastily.)  How  d'ye  do,  mother?    Mrs.  Talbot, 
I  give  you  joy. 

Lady  P.  Take  breath  —  take  breath. 

Louisa.  It  is  my  brother — 

Mrs.  T.  Here  he  is.     Hark !  —  Hark ! 

(A  cry  behind  the  scenes  of  "  Talbot  and  truth  for 
ever !     Huzza !" 
Louisa.  They  are  chairing  him. 

Lord  J.  Yes,  they  are  chairing  him,  and  he  has  been 
chosen  for  his  honourable  conduct,  not  for  his  electioneer- 
ing skill;  for,  to  do  him  justice,  Coriolanus  himself  was  not 
a  worse  electioneerer. 

Enter  Rory  O'Ryan  and  another  Eton  lad  carrying  Talbot 
in  a  chair,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  Eton  lads, 
Rory.  By  your  lave,  my  lord.    By  your  lave,  ladies. 
Omnes.  Huzza!     Talbot  ind  truth  for  ever!     Huzza' 


ETON     MONTEM.  535 

Talb.  Set  me  down  1  There 's  my  mother  i  tnere  's  my 
aister ! 

Rory.  Easy,  easy.  Set  him  down!  No  such  ting  I  givt 
him  t'other  huzza!  there's  nothing  like  a  good  loud  huzza 
in  this  world?  Yes,  there  is ;  for,  as  my  Lord  John  said 
just  now,  out  of  some  book,  or  his  own  head, 

"  One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs, 
Of  stupid  starers  and  of  loud  huzzas." 

(Curtain  falls.) 


TBI  BTO. 


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phia Evening  Bulletin. 

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and  valuable  series  to  be  found  in  any 
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reference.  It  is  at  once  handsome  and 
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THE  GLOBE   EDITION. 

Complete  in  25  Volumes.     Printed  on  Tinted  Paper.     i6mo.     With 
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"We  have  more  than  once  com- 
mended the  Globe  as  the  best  edition 
of  Bulwer  accessible  to  American 
readers." — Cincinnati  Gazette. 


.  .  .  "The  convenient  size,  beau- 
tiful style,  and  cheapness  of  this  edition 
is  worthy  the  attention  of  book-buy- 
ers."— Pittsburgh  Gazette. 


LIBRARY   EDITION. 

Complete  in  47  Volumes.     Large  Type.     Fine  Tinted  Paper.     i2mo. 
Extra  Cloth,  $1.00.      Price  per  Set,  $47.00. 


EACH    NOVEL    SOLD    SEPARATELY. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO. 
THE 

'ODD  TRUMP"  SERIES. 

8vo.    Fine  cloth.    $1.25.    Paper  cover.    75  cts. 


THE    ODD    TRUMP. 

"  Deserving  the  highest  praise.  ...  I  English,  with  a  purity  of  style  that 
Its  incidents  are  all  pure;    it  is  the  I  is    in    itself   refreshing." — Louisvillt 
apotheosis   of  chivalric  bravery  and     Courier- Journal. 
courtesy;    and  is  written  in  elegant  | 


HARWOOD. 

A  good  novel  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word." — Indianapolis  Journal. 


THE    LACY    DIAMONDS. 

"  Will  more    than  ever   stamp  its  I  novelists  of  America,  or  it  may  be  of 
author  as  one  of  the  foremost  popular  |  the  world." — New  York  Commercial. 


FLESH    AND    SPIRIT. 


"  We  do  not  at  all  wonder  that  these 
novels  are  popular.  They  deserve 
popularity  for  being   precisely  what 


they  are  meant  to  be  and  what  they 
profess  to  be." — New  York  Evening 
Post. 


THE    CLIFTON    PICTURE. 

"  A   novel  that  the  most  exciting  I  situations,  bright  and  entertaining, 
taste  will  revel  in.     It  is  brimful  of    — Boston  Post. 


THE    GHOST    OF   REDBROOK. 


"  It  is  a  thoroughly  readable  novel, 
pure  and  vigorous  in  tone,  with  plenty 
of  love,  romance,  and  humor,  and  not 
much  ghost.     The  plot  is  worked  out 


most  skilfully,  and  will  puzzle  even  the 
inveterate  novel  readers." — Louisville 
Courier-  Journal. 


PUBLICATIONS  Of  J.  B.  L1PPINC0TT  &•  CO. 

MRS.  FORRESTER'S  NOVELS. 

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RHONA. 

•'  The  author   is   one   of   the   most  I  this  is  esteemed  among  her  best."— 
popular  writers    of   the   period,    and  |  Baltimore  Gazette. 

DOLORES. 

"  This  is  a  delightful  book.     One  of  the  best  romances  of  the  day." — Phila- 
delphia Chronicle. 

DIANA    CAREW; 
Or,  For  a  Woman's  Sake. 

"A  story  of  great  beauty  and  complete   interest  to  its  close." — Boston 
Traveller. 

MIGNON. 


"  Will  be  counted  her  best,  as  it  is 
full  of  a  keen  interest  both  in  its  plot 
and  character,  and  is  written  in  a  re- 


fined and  exceedingly  pleasing  style." 
— Publishers'  Weekly. 


VIVA. 


"A  work  of  unusual  power  and  in- 
terest. The  plot  is  deeply  attractive, 
the  characters  are  striking,  and   the 


management  of  the  story  throughout 
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PHYLLIS. 

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"  It  is  fascinating  to  a  high  degree.  |  charming  heroine." — New  York  Ev. 
.  .   .  We  lay  aside  the  book  with  a    Mail. 

sigh  of  regret  that  the  pleasure  is  over,  j  "Certainly  'Phyllis'  is  one  of  the 
after  mingling  our  laughter  and  tears  j  most  fascinating  little  novels  that  has 
with    the    varying     fortunes     of    the  |  appeared  this  year." — N.  O.  Times. 

MOLLY    BAWN. 
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*'  Is  really  an  attractive  novel.  Full 
of  wit,  spirit,  and  gayety,  the  book 
contains,  nevertheless,  touches  of  the 
most  exquisite  pathos.  There  is  plenty 
of  fun  and  humor,  which  never  degen- 


erate into  vulgarity.  All  women  will 
envy,  and  all  men  fall  in  love  with, 
her.  Higher  praise  we  surely  cannot 
givtt." — London  Athenceum. 


AIRY    FAIRY    LILIAN. 

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"  The  airiest  and  most  sparkling  I  ing.  Its  narrative  is  animated,  its 
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romance  by  the  author  of  'Phyllis.'  |  pure  and  wholesome,  and  its  characters 
It  is  as  full  of  variety  and  refreshment  are  gracefully  contrasted." — Harper1 1 
as  a  bright  and  changeful  June  morn-  |  Magazine. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO. 


GEORGE  MACDONALD'S  WORKS 


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IVIALCOLIVI. 

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$1.50. 


"It  is  the  most  mature,  elaborate, 
and  highly-finished  work  of  its  dis- 
tinguished author,  whose  other  novels 


have  had  an  extraordinary  success. 
— Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 


the  marquis  of  lossie, 

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"  One  of  the  best  of  George  Mac-  I  not  less  strong  in  the  delineation  of 
donald's  novels,  stronger  in  incident     character." — New  York  Ev.  Post. 
than  his  stories  are  wont  to  be,  and 


SIR    GIBBIE. 

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"  The  story  is  one  of  strong  interest  I  know  how  high  a  recommendation  as 


from  opening  to  conclusion.  It  is,  in 
fact,  one  of  Macdonald's  best,  and 
there  are  thousands  of  readers  who 


to  the  interest  of  the  story  that  means. 
— Detroit  Tribune. 


PAUL    FABER. 

8vo.    Paper  cover.    75  cents.    Fine  cloth.    $1.25. 

"An  absorbing  novel — in  some,  if  I  our  time." — San  Francisco  Alta-CaL 
not  in  all,  respects  Macdonald's  best;     ifornia. 
and  his  novels  are  among  the  best  of  | 


RANALD    BANNERMAN'S 
BOYHOOD. 

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"  Mr.  Macdonald  writes  of  youthful  I  volume  is  in  his  best  style." — Boston 
experiences  in  a  way  unequalled  by     Post. 
any  other  author  of  the  day,  and  this  | 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  GOBLIN. 

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"  This  is  one  of  the  most  attractive  I  and  appearance.     It  is  fascinating  in 
books  for  the   young  published  this    its  interest." — Pittsburgh  Gazette. 
season,   in   respect  both  to  contents  | 


